To Be A Thief
by it-was-important
Summary: A young Breton thief finds himself among the Thieves Guild, a dying band of thieves housed in Riften. Running from Helgen, the title of Dragonborn, and his past, Garent is delighted when he is brought into the Guild. Mercer Frey does not share his excitement. Now, as the mysteries of the Thieves Guild come crumbling down, Garent must prove that he has what it takes to be a thief.
1. An Opportunity

Garent stood amongst the marketplace with a curious gaze. He had never been to Riften before, and he had to say it was not like most of the cities he had so far visited. Given, Riften was _nicer._ The air was warmer and the sun brighter, it seemed, and the leaves were changed in the colors of autumn. These things made Riften seem nicer. How ironic, he found it then, that the townspeople were so incredibly rude. Upon immediate arrival the guards had tried to rob him, and shortly after he was somewhat threatened by a big man who went by Maul. No, Riften might have been one of the most beautiful cities but it certainly was not the friendliest.

And while Garent was not unaccustomed to being barked at by higher class citizens, even he found all this to be very demeaning.

He sat now on a barrel by the marketplace, dressed in the fur armor he had taken off some bandit. The Jarl of Whiterun had given him some nice steel armor as reward for his help, but Garent had simply sold it. He never liked that heavier armor, and in fact found it restricting. He had stripped the bandit by the side of the road. It was really only a pair of trousers, his chest was bare now. He didn't mind, of course. He had nothing to hide.

He was not a very tall man, and was really hardly a man at all. His hair was straggly and dark red, his skin pale. There were little scars on his chest, as though he'd been nipped with a dagger more than a few times. He watched the people come and go with interest. The woman selling weapons was a sour thing, quick, to the point, and ready to cut you down if you messed with her. Madesi was a kinder man, an Argonian who peacefully sold his wares; jewelry and other shiny trinkets. It was the man on the other side of the market that fascinated him most, though.

"Come one, come all!" shouted the man, "Come and see my Falmer Blood Elixir." Falmer? Those horrid creatures wandering blindly through old caverns? The snow elves? Garent's brow wrinkled at the thought. The reddish liquid the man was holding reminded him of a health potion. He was certain that wasn't it at all, though. There was a strange smell coming from even the bottles.

Garent shook his head and scoffed. "What a load of-"

"Got something to say, lad?" Grant nearly jumped out of his skin as he found the well-dressed man standing in front of him. His eyes widened. Then he had heard him, huh? Garent pursed his lips and looked the man up and down. Tall, strong looking, but he didn't look like a merchant. His clothes were expensive, but not suited to him. He didn't look like he belonged in them at all. His eyes were green and filled with fire directed straight at Garent. "Well? Are you deaf?"

Garent winced. "Nothing at all," he said quietly. He was no coward, but that didn't mean he wanted to go about picking fights. He had just gotten here, after all. And this man was big, he looked like he could snap Garent in half. No, Garent was no coward, but he also wasn't an idiot. He wasn't about to try and fight this man, who looked both older and stronger. "Nothing at all, sir," he repeated, his voice coming out humble as he had hoped.

The man's eyes narrowed, and then softened and he let out a chuckle. "I'm just kidding you, lad," he said, laughing now. Garent relaxed slowly, only now realizing how stiff he had been. He watched the man in surprise, and slowly began to awkwardly laugh as well. "Don't think I'd actually hit you, do you?" He shook his head, his laughter dying back down to a chuckle.

He looked Garent up and down and smirked. Garent frowned, not liking the feeling of being sized up, but tried to do the same to him. He had to have been in his forties, at least, but he looked good for his age. He was strong, his hair long and dark red just a shade lighter from Garent's. Finally, the man tilted his head downward and looked at him. "Running a little light in the pockets, lad?" he asked in a voice just above a whisper. Garent felt his face redden. That was what this was about? He was making fun of him? Garent knew he didn't look his best, he was probably covered in dirt and maybe a little dried blood. Not to mention, his eye was still a little swollen from the black eye he had gotten from that stable-master outside. Friendly fight, and he had won. Sort of.

Garent scowled at the man. "My wealth is none of your business," he hissed in return. He found himself standing from the barrel and shoving past the taller man. He felt a calloused hand wrap entirely around his arm.

"That's where you're wrong, lad," said the man calmly. He didn't look bothered by the very upset boy in front of him. If anything, he seemed amused by it. "Wealth _is_ my business." He smiled. "Maybe you'd like a taste?"

Garent raised a brow curiously now. He wouldn't deny that he had never really listened to the law. In Whiterun, he had broken into Belethor's shop and stolen all the coin in his strongbox. He had only left after he had gotten bored picking the locks of the Battle-Borns and the Gray-Manes. He had been pickpocketing what he could. It was the only thing keeping him fed as of right now. Sure, he wasn't the greatest thief. He may have been a little clumsy. At least he had gotten this far without a trip to the jails. He studied the man's face. "What do you have in mind?"

The merchant's face broke out in a grin and he chuckled. "I've got a bit of an errand to perform, but I need an extra pair of hands. In my line of work, extra hands are well-paid." He let go of Garent's arm now, as if offering to let the boy go on about his business. Garent didn't move. How could he now? He was currently without a septim to his name, and to be frank, he was sick of sleeping on the street. Enough gold to buy him a night in the inn was all he really wanted, though he couldn't say he didn't like the idea of some spending money.

"What do I have to do?"

"Simple, I'm going to cause a distraction and you're going to steal Madesi's ring from a strongbox under his stand. Once you have it, I want you to place Brand-Shei's pocket without him noticing."

Garent glanced over, firstly at the Argonian who was calling out his wares in a friendly voice. Then to Brand-Shei, the elf who seemed just as friendly. Garent had grabbed a bottle of wine off his stall the night before. He turned back to the merchant. "Why plant the ring on Brand-Shei?" he asked. The elf didn't seem like a bad person. In fact, he was one of the nicer citizens of Riften. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of getting the man into trouble.

The thief frowned, not thrilled with the many questions, but after a pause he said, "There's someone that wants to see him put out of business permanently. That's all you need to know. Now, you tell me when you're ready and we'll get started."

"I never agreed to helping you," Garent snapped, taking the man by surprise. "What will happen to Brand-Shei afterwards?" The thief stared, shocked, and then shook his head.

"I didn't think you'd be so soft hearted, lad. Maybe you're not cut out for this." When this didn't get Garent to agree, the man sighed. "Fine, fine. He'll get sent to jail for a few days, then they'll let him out. Now, are you in or not? I don't have all day to wait on you and your _sentiment_."

Garent bristled at the scornful words. His eyes narrowed at the older man who was more than a few inches taller than him. "I don't even know who you are," he pointed out, looking the merchant up and down. The man scoffed. "For all I know you're some double-crossing killer."

"Killing's not my line of work," the man replied tartly. "Enough stalling now, lad. In or out?"

The boy hesitated and took another look between the stands, something that obviously annoyed the other. Finally, Garent sighed. "I'm ready. Let's get this started."

It had been easy work, mostly. Garent was never the best at lock picking, but he had the strongbox open within the first minute and had slunk over to where Brand-Shei sat without a sound. He had hesitated before doing it. This wasn't right. Stealing little bits of coin and food was one thing, but stealing something and purposely framing another innocent person was something entirely different. He did it, though. He carefully planted the ring in his pocket, for once with a feathery touch. Once it was done he slipped away, sitting on the wall and listening to the merchant's distraction.

When it was all over, and everyone had dissipated, Garent walked over to the stand. "Looks like I chose the right person for the job," he commented, "And here you go, your payment, just as I promised."

Garent grabbed the bag of coins and took a peek inside, much to the merchant's obvious amusement. One hundred gold pieces, right there. He would sleep well tonight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw guards approaching Brand-Shei's stall. "The way things have been going around here, it's a relief that our plan went off without a hitch." The guards were telling Brand-Shei to empty his pockets. Garent felt sick, and turned back to the thief.

"What's been going on?" he asked.

The older man waved off the question. "Bah, my organization's been having a run of bad luck, but I suppose that's just how it goes. Never mind that. You did the job and you did it well. Best of all, there's more where that came from. If you think you can handle it," he added with a crooked smile. They were taking Brand-Shei away, weapons out. The boy felt guilt somewhere deep in his stomach. Most of the people he had stolen from were rude, or had somehow crossed him, or were too rich for their own good. He had never framed a poor man and sent him to jail. That was wrong. He pushed the thoughts away, though. There was no room for sympathy in Skyrim, as his old friend had once told him. There was only room for prosperity in rare cases, and survival.

"I can handle it," he said, almost robotically. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was just to prove to the older man that he could. Garent knew he didn't look like much, and surely so did this man. He wanted to prove himself, though. He was no weakling.

The thief smirked. "All right, then. Let's put that to the test." He began packing up the bottles of Falmer Blood Elixir in a box. "The group I represent has its home in the Ratway beneath Riften. In a tavern called the Ragged Flagon." He lifted the box of the elixir and looked around to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything. Garent noticed he didn't reach for his satchel. "You get there in one piece, and we'll see if you've got what it takes."

He turned then and headed the other way. Garent's eyes widened. "Hey, wait," he called, running to catch up with the other, "I didn't catch your name."

The thief turned around, a slightly annoyed and puzzled look on his face. "You know, we don't usually give out names so freely around here, lad." He held the box under his arm.

"Yeah, well I'm not from around here," Garent replied, striding over to meet the man. "Come on, I'll give you my name? It's Garent."

"Garent," the man echoed, almost scornfully.

Garent's eyes narrowed. "Yes, it's Garent. Shut up, it isn't that odd a name."

The thief chuckled. "All right, _Garent_ ," he drawled out, making the boy's face flush. "It's Brynjolf. Now get a move on, either get through the Ratway or don't, choice is yours. But I tell you, that hundred gold pieces won't last you forever, and unless you want to spend the rest of your life on the street, you'll find your way to the Flagon."

Brynjolf turned then, without waiting for a reply, and disappeared towards the Temple of Mara. Garent looked down at the bag in his hands and sighed. Something told him the man was right. He wouldn't last forever on the streets. At this rate, he might as well at least _try_ his hand at making money. If the pay was this good, why not? He turned and strode off towards the inn. He would settle it out tonight, in his warm bed, with a bottle of mead. Maybe two, he thought, as he felt the bag of coin bounce against his leg as he walked.


	2. Got To Work For It

The entrance to the Ratway stunk of sewage and other foul things. The smell was abhorrent, and Garent almost turned back from the little gate. He was determined, though. There was no way he was going to fail getting to this Ragged Flagon and let Brynjolf know what a weakling he was. There was a steel dagger at each of his sides, courtesy of the money he had gotten from Brynjolf's last job. The man - Balimund - had gave him an odd look when he requested the small blades. Garent hadn't paid it any mind, though. To be frank, he preferred the daggers. They were light, and he could move as he pleased. Swords took up too much space. And besides, he always fought better when he was close to his enemy.

He opened the gate and listened to the creak it made with a cringe. He had tried to sneak his way down here, but really it had been no use. It was the middle of the day, and surely _someone_ had seen him creeping his way down the stairs. Whatever. It didn't matter now.

Taking a deep breath, Garent stepped towards the door that would lead him down to the Ratway. He opened it as quietly as he could, but once again cringed at the creaking sound that came. He sighed and slipped inside, shutting the door carefully.

Immediately, Garent was attacked with various smells and sounds. He had to squint in the dark, letting his eyes adjust. He could hear a door opening and shutting somewhere, and then quiet talking. Garent crept forward, trying his best to stay in the dark now. He could see two men at the end of the passage, arguing about financial states. When it was resolved, one of the men walked off. Garent took a breath.

It was no big deal, he had killed people before. Hell, if you lived in Skyrim odds were you've killed someone before. That was no big deal here. He just had to make sure he could get close enough. If that oaf started shooting arrows at him, he could be in big trouble. He clutched the handles of the daggers tightly.

Garent found himself only a few feet away from the man who had yet to notice him. He had one shot, if he didn't kill this man now the other would be alerted. And if the other was alerted, that would spell bad news. He took in a quiet breath, hesitated, and then all at once pounced. The man let out a cry of surprise, much to Garent's annoyance. He could already hear the other one's footsteps running to the rescue. Garent stepped close to the man, practically dancing around him, and in one swipe he had cut the man's throat. The man fell with a last gurgled cry just in time for the other to dash in.

Garent yelped as an arrow whizzed by his ear. The man had his bow out and was backing up as much as permitted to let fly another. Garent ducked as the arrow flew at him and rolled forward to get closer to his enemy. The man jumped back, eager to keep his distance from the quick boy. Garent growled softly and dashed out of the way of another arrow.

He felt a sharp pain nip his shoulder and hissed. The arrow had barely cut his skin, but a trickle of blood was sliding down his arm. Garent looked up and jumped out of the way of another. He dashed forward, trying to get close to his attacker, and was finally able to back the man into a corner. That was all Garent needed. He flipped forward and with a brandish of the dagger he sent it straight into the man's eye. He watched the man fall with a last groan and paused, panting. He looked at his bare arm and gingerly touched the oozing cut the arrow had left. He winced.

Sighing, Garent looked down at the dead men. Two men dead, but how many more were lurking around this place ready to slit his throat? He would have to be careful. He sheathed the two daggers and stepped over the archer, walking on and finding himself having to jump down to a bottom floor to keep going.

The rest of the trip was just as tedious. Garent ran up on a few skeevers and some man living amongst a bunch of ready bear traps. Finally he came upon some lowlife who fought him tooth and nail until Garent was finally able to cut his throat. Along the way were some troubling sights, such as highly flammable oil lying precariously everywhere on the ground and a scene that looked almost like the executioner's block. Except this was a plain basket and a tree stump. Regardless, the blood stains on the giant axe were no pleasant sight.

He reached the Ragged Flagon with a few bruises and cuts, his lip bleeding from the man who fought with his fists and his side a bit slashed from the woman just outside the Flagon. No matter, he could get a health potion later.

As soon as he stepped in, he heard Brynjolf's familiar voice, along with a few others. "Give it up, Brynjolf. Those days are over," said another's voice. As Garent approached the Flagon, he bent down behind a few barrels to listen.

"I'm telling you," Brynjolf insisted, "This one's the real deal." Garent couldn't help the small smirk that appeared on his face. He was the real deal, was he? How sweet.

"You, Mercer, Vex... You're a dying breed," said the man at the bar.

Brynjolf paused, and Garent found himself leaning in closer to see what the man was doing. There was a smirk on Brynjolf's face, and without turning around he gestured to where Garent was hiding. "Oh yeah? What do you call _that_?"

Garent blushed when he realized that the older man had known he was there. He stood up straight, awkwardly, and walked over. "Damn, lad. Those lot in the Ratway got you good, huh?" He chuckled and took out a potion from one of the little pockets on his clothes. Now _this_ outfit suited the man, Garent couldn't help but notice. This clad of black armor that had multiple pockets and complicated buckles. This seemed to fit Brynjolf and his thieving personality perfectly.

The boy eyed the liquid cautiously. "Falmer Blood Elixir? No thank you."

Brynjolf let out a laugh that rang through the Ragged Flagon. He shook his head. "Just a health potion, lad. Take it quick now."

Pausing, Garent took the potion and uncorked it with his teeth. He tipped his head back and drank it in one gulp, feeling a wash of relief fill him. The pain in his side immediately eased off to a dull ache and he couldn't feel his arm bleeding anymore. "Thanks," he said quietly, setting the empty bottle aside and looking around the Ragged Flagon. "So, this is your base, huh?" he asked, "Looks like it's seen better days."

A woman with white-blonde hair scoffed and the man behind the bar scowled. Brynjolf chuckled. "Yes, the Flagon isn't in it's best shape," he agreed. "Enough of that. I have to say, I'm impressed, lad. I wasn't sure you would make it here."

Now Garent scoffed, a little too confidently as Brynjolf's eyebrow raised. That didn't stop the boy from replying, "It was nothing. Now, what were you saying about more profit?"

Brynjolf let out a laugh and shook his head. "Right to the point, eh?" he asked in amusement. "All right, tell you what. I have some work that needs to be done. You get this done right, and you'll be a real member of my... organization." He hesitated. "Think you can get this done?"

Garent nodded. "Just tell me what to do."

Brynjolf smiled and pulled a chair up by the bar, asking the man Garent found went by "Vekel the Man" for two bottles of Black-Briar mead. It was different than Honningbrew mead, Garent thought curiously as he took a drink. Honningbrew was sweet enough to give a man a toothache and had a fierce kick behind it, but this Black-Briar mead had a spiced flavor to it along with the usual sweetness. It left him reeling the first sip. Brynjolf saw the look on the boy's face and chuckled, much to Garent's annoyance, but he let it go for now. "The job's simple enough," explained the thief, "There's three shop owner's that owe us money, and we need you to go collect it."

"Great, sounds easy," Garent replied, taking another tentative sip of the mead.

"Should be," Brynjolf replied, "If not then maybe you aren't cut out for this sort of job."

Garent's eyes narrowed. "I can handle it," he said gruffly. Brynjolf smiled.

"I'm sure," he replied. "Now, listen close. You have three people to go see; Haelga who works at the Bunkhouse, Keerava, the owner of the Bee and Barb, and Bersi Honey-Hand. Each of them owe some money to my organization, and it's time to pay up."

The boy stared at the bar top for a moment in thought before he looked up to meet the thief's eyes. "Okay, what can you tell me about them?"

"For starters, Haelga. She's stubborn, but she's also a strong Dibella worshipper. There's a statue in the Bunkhouse. Take that, and she'll give you the gold without argument. Next, Bersi. The sod has this obsession with that old urn sitting in his shop. Can't miss it, blue and gold, dwarven looking thing. It's his prized possession. Smash it to pieces, and he'll give you the gold. Finally we have Keerava. I'm sure you noticed the Argonian man working there? The way I hear, they're lovers. Speak to Talen-Jei, maybe you can get him to open up about her past. Anything else?"

"Can I get paid something up front?" Garent tried.

Brynjolf scoffed. "Nice try, lad. You're not getting a septim until that gold is taken care of. Now get out there, the sooner the better." Garent shrugged, at least he had tried. He stood, only to feel the room spin slightly. Brynjolf raised a brow. "Can't hold your mead, lad?" Garent scoffed and waved him off, stumbling back towards the passage that would get him out of this sewer.

As he stumbled to the door, he heard Vekel say in a rather sarcastic tone, "You sure can pick them, 'ey Bryn?"

Haelga's Bunkhouse was crowded with the workers. The air was thick with smoke, but that didn't stop Garent from noticing the young woman sweeping the floor. Surely _she_ wasn't Haelga? There was no way. He strode over to her quietly, and as she looked up she smiled. "Hello, is there something I can help you with?"

Garent was sure he could think of _more_ than a few things she could help him with, but remembering Brynjolf's words he shook away that thought. "I'm looking for Haelga? Surely you're not her?"

The young woman laughed bitterly. "No, definitely not," she answered. "My name is Svana, I'm Haelga's niece. My aunt is in the back room there behind the counter. Is something wrong?"

"Just here on some business," Garent replied with a friendly smile. His eyes flickered to something on a dresser. The Dibella statue Brynjolf had mentioned. "Do you think you can go get her for me? This is very important, and I'd hate to intrude on her private room. If you don't mind?" To any woman, Garent must have looked very innocent. He wasn't very large, after all, nor was he tall. He hadn't a bit of facial hair, which sometimes got him scoffed at. It wasn't that he couldn't grow it, though!

Svana made a little noise of hesitance and then smiled prettily. "Sure, I'll be right back." Her back turned, she walked off behind the counter to retrieve her aunt. That left Garent alone with the statue. He looked around, making sure no one was watching, and then carefully swiped it off the dresser. He frowned, looking for a place to hide it, and when he couldn't find one he realized perhaps he should start wearing shirts. Finally he settled for leaning up against the counter and hiding the statue by pressing it between himself and the wood.

He had to admit, Haelga was no hagraven, either. She was older, obviously, but she had aged quite well and was fair as a Nord woman could be. He smiled the same friendly look when she came out. "Evening," he greeted.

"What's this about?" she demanded, and then turning to Svana she snapped, "Go and take care of the workers, girl. This is none of your business." Svana glared at her aunt, but skulked off to do as Haelga said. The Bunkhouse owner looked to Garent sharply. "Well? What do you want?"

"You owe my friends some money," Garent replied calmly, "I'm here to get it from you." He loved the look of fire that appeared in the woman's eyes. "So, Brynjolf's sending little boys to do his dirty work now, huh? Well, I'll tell you the same thing I told him. Times are tough. I don't have the money to spare. Now get out of my bunkhouse."

Little boy? _Ouch_.

"That really how you want to do things?" Garent asked, anger tinged in his voice now. "Well, that's fine. But before I go, I have to ask? How much do you think this statue is worth?" Garent pulled out the Dibella statue as though it were a trophy he had just won, and the way Haelga's eyes widened made him smirk. _Now we're getting somewhere._

"No!" Haelga snapped, "Not Lady Dibella!" Haelga's fists clenched and she eyed the statue with a worried expression. Garent was sure he just saw the fire die in her eyes. "F-Fine. Here, take the money. Just give me the statue back." She reached behind the counter and carefully took out a small bag of coins. She tossed it onto the counter top. Garent smirked and took the bag, handing the statue back with ease.

"Thank you very much," Garent stated, putting the bag away and turning on his heel. He smiled at the quiet curses he heard from the owner of the Bunkhouse aimed right at his back.

Garent strode out of the Bunkhouse proudly. One down, two to go. Who to visit next? He decided to bypass the Bee and Barb, and instead stepped into Bersi's shop. The place was small, he noted, and immediately he saw the gaudy and expensive looking urn. There was a woman sitting by the fire watching him without interest. Bersi was behind the shop counter. Garent walked over confidently. "Good evening," he greeted.

"And hello to you," Bersi replied, "Something I can help you with?"

Garent looked the man up and down, he wasn't _old_ but he sure as hell was no spring chicken. Garent was sure this man wouldn't put up a fight. "Yes, actually," he answered nicely, "I'm here on some business. You see, you're in debt to a few of my friends. And I'm here to make sure you pay the tax." Bersi's eyes widened a little. "So," Garent chirped, a little too loudly as the woman at the fire jumped. "Here's the deal, you give me the money and we have no problem."

Bersi scowled. "Brynjolf set you up to this, didn't he?" he snapped, "Well listen here, I simply don't have the money right now. You tell Brynjolf that-"

"Brynjolf is through hearing your excuses," Garent retorted, "And frankly, so am I." He spun around then, eyeing the urn mischievously.

"What are you doing?" Bersi asked worriedly.

"Getting the point across," answered Garent, and brought one of his daggers down against the urn. He heard a clash, and the surface was scratched. He distinctly heard Bersi gasp.

"Oh, just give him the money, Bersi," said the woman sullenly.

Garent brought the other dagger down, watching another scratch appear. Dust appeared. "Stop it!" Bersi shouted, and Garent chuckled. He brought down the daggers again, and watched the urn shatter beneath the weight. He turned around casually to see Bersi staring at him, paled. The older man looked mortified. "Do you _know_ how priceless that urn was?"

"Shall I break something else?" Garent asked casually, ignoring the question.

"No!" Bersi exclaimed, and then in a quieter tone, "No. Here; take the money. Just don't touch anything else."

Garent smiled and took the money. "Nice doing business with you. Have a nice night." He stepped out into the cool Skyrim air with a chuckle. He had to admit, this was fun. The sun had set now and it was dark. He could see a guard wandering around with a torch. "One more," he whispered, examining the inn carefully. He strode to the door and stepped inside, immediately smelling fresh baked bread and stew. He could see Haelga sitting with some man. She was glaring daggers at him. Keerava was behind the counter with a troubled look on her face. He approached with a swagger and smiled easily at her. "Hello there."

"Listen," Keerava rasped immediately, "I know who you are. You work for Brynjolf, right? Hey, tell him I was just kidding about that stuff I said about tossing him in the lake and everything. Here, here's the money I owe. Just take it and leave, please."

The boy's eyebrow quirked. He guessed Haelga had mentioned him to Keerava. Regardless, he smiled and took the money from the counter. "Nice doing business," he replied, turning on his heel and striding back out of the inn.

"Looks like it's all here," Brynjolf commented as he looked into the three bags of coin. "Nice work, lad. You handled them all well, no violence. I'm impressed."

Garent sat at the bar of the Ragged Flagon, taking swigs of Black-Briar mead every other breath. The taste was starting to grow on him, and the feeling of the room spinning brought an even stronger feel to his ego. He felt like he was on top of the world. "It was a piece of cake," he replied, leaning his head back to drink the last drops of the mead bottle and reaching out for another. "So, what's my pay for the job?"

Brynjolf chuckled. "You're all business tonight, eh?" he joked. He shook his head and pushed a bag of coin Garent's way. "Here you are. Your payment. Now, what do you think? Want to join my little organization?"

"You mean I haven't already?" Garent replied with a snort. "I think you know the answer. I'm in, where ever the coin is, so am I. Now, let me in on this _organization_ of yours."

The older thief smirked. "Confident now, are we? All right, lad. It's called the Thieves Guild. I'm sure by now you've heard the name?"

"The guards have mentioned it," the boy replied.

"We're an organization of thieves that's been in Skyrim for _years_."

"So, I get to join you?" Garent tipped his head back and felt the mead burn down his throat. His eyes closed. "Be a part of the Guild and all?"

Brynjolf nodded. "If you're interested," he replied. "And it seems like you are. So, if you'll follow me, I'll show you base of the operation." Brynjolf stood and beckoned the boy to follow him. Garent's eyebrow raised and he glanced at Vekel, who was wiping out a tankard. The Man simply nodded at him to go on.

"You mean, the Flagon isn't the base?" He stood up and stumbled a little, grabbing onto the counter top to make sure he didn't fall. After a short pause, he stumbled after Brynjolf who was going towards the back.

"Make sure you never drink on the job, lad," the man called back. He chuckled, "And as for your question, only sort of. The Flagon isn't just it, though. Come on, this way to the Cistern." The Nord opened what looked like a cabinet but turned out to be a secret door. "Come on through." Garent followed the thief through the secret door and down the passage, glancing into a bedroom he could assume was Vekel's as he went. There was a door a little farther down. "You're about to meet the Guildmaster, lad, Mercer Frey. A bit of an angry fellow, just watch your step around him and you'll be fine."

Garent frowned. Mercer Frey. "Sounds like he's got a stick up his-"

"This way, lad."

The Cistern was a large, circular room with a bridge crossing the center in a crossed way. Water was pouring from four ends into the pools below. The place was murky, Garent thought, and had a peculiar smell to it. There were different people walking around, too, in similar armor. The ceiling was high and there was a bit of light coming in from the center. This didn't change the gloomy mood of the entire room, though. Every sound was amplified in here. Each footstep echoed and bounced along the walls. Garent felt eyes on him as he followed Brynjolf across the bridge towards a man waiting for them.

Mercer Frey was indeed an angry looking man. He was clearly a Breton, just as Garent, and was only an inch or two taller than the boy. He was older, though, and strong looking. A large blade was at his side. He was wearing black armor much like Brynjolf's. The man had a scowl on his face that made Garent shudder. He was suddenly feeling much more sober.

"Mercer," Brynjolf greeted, "I'd like you to meet Garent. A new recruit. Promising one at that."

"So you've told me," the Guildmaster replied sourly. Mercer's eyes studied the boy. "He doesn't look like much to me. And he's filthy, Brynjolf."

Garent bristled. He felt his anger spike at the insult and his fists clenched. Mercer seemed to notice and shot the boy a hard look in warning. It was as if he were daring him to say something in reply. Garent bit his tongue and settled for glaring at the Guildmaster nastily, his red hair hiding the worst of the look on his face. Brynjolf cleared his throat. "We'll get him cleaned up later, Merc."

"He smells terrible," continued the Guildmaster, "And he reeks of alcohol. Not to mention, he hasn't made a steady step since he's walked in. He can't even hold his alcohol, let alone make trips to do jobs." Mercer's gaze fell back on Garent with disgust in his eyes. "He looks like he'd get himself killed in a fight, too, if it had to come down to that. He's not even got a proper weapon, just two daggers strapped to his sides."

Brynjolf seemed to shift uncomfortably. "Mercer, don't you think that's a little uncalled for?"

Garent was seething. His face had turned a light shade of red and his fists balled tightly. He had a record of getting into fist fights by now. With the stables master outside Riften, and Rolff in Windhelm. Mikael in Whiterun had put up a good fight, but Garent had won that one, too. His fists were twitching and his teeth gritted, wanting nothing more than to break Mercer Frey's nose. Brynjolf seemed to notice that, because he stepped in front of Garent to block him.

"Where did you get this one, anyway?" Mercer asked, looking behind Brynjolf at the boy in question. "Honorhall Orphanage?"

That had done it for Garent. He let out a growl and threw himself at the Guildmaster, fists swinging wildly. Brynjolf was taken by surprise, unable to stop that boy from attacking the grouchy Breton. Garent had gotten two hits in - one on the side of Mercer's head, the other right on his nose - before he was suddenly flipped over and landed harshly onto the floor. Garent let out a strangled snarl as Mercer pressed his boot into the boy's back, pinning him down. Mercer might have been older, but he was also much stronger and furious now.

Garent twisted underneath Mercer's foot, only to feel the man stomp farther onto his spine. Garent let out a cry. "Get off me!"

"And he fights like an angry Skeever," Mercer growled out, pressing farther into the boy's back. Garent grunted in pain. Garent twisted his head to try and see the Guildmaster. Blood was trickling down the man's nose. Brynjolf was trying to pull him off.

"All right, Mercer, he gets the picture. Let him up now." Mercer let out another low growl, pushing onto Garent's back one last time and undoubtedly leaving a boot-shaped bruise. He pulled his foot away then, taking a step back and letting Brynjolf bend down to the boy. "Up you go," Brynjolf said carefully, dragging the furious looking Garent back to his feet. Garent flexed his arms and stretched his back, glaring daggers at the Guildmaster who wiped the blood off his face.

Garent folded his arms over his chest. Mercer was glaring back at him, with looks that could kill. If Mercer could have gotten his hands on him, Garent was certain it would be more than a mere fist fight. He stared back, his own blue eyes filled with fire and warning. _Speak to me like that again, and I'll slit your throat in your sleep_.

Mercer was quiet for a moment, and Garent realized the entire Cistern had fell silent at the little scuffle. Everyone was watching, too. He felt himself go stiff. He normally didn't mind being stared at by large groups of people, but this was uncomfortable. It was only when Mercer spoke with such finality did the room seem to breathe again, "Go get him cleaned up and get him in some armor. Then to the training room, if I see him fight like that again, I'll blacken his eye myself."

The Guildmaster strode off then, back towards a desk at the area opposite of the door. The thieves in the room went back to business, and Garent let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.


	3. Sentiment

"What's his problem, anyway?" Garent had to admit, standing in the cold lake without any clothes in the middle of the night was not how he would have liked to have spent his evening. He could see the blood and grime coming off his body, though, and dirt was coming out of his hair. He had been right to assume a bruise had appeared on his back. It was aching, but he hadn't bothered with a health potion.

Brynjolf sat at the shore of the lake, flipping through a book titled Nightingales; Fact or Fiction? "Oh, he's always like that," the thief replied. "I can't really remember a time when Mercer Frey was in a good mood. Except maybe after getting paid. And that's usually short lived." He flipped the page and soon after he scoffed. "I don't believe this nonsense for a second. Almost done out there, lad? You'll want to finish soon. Unless the idea of getting bit in the privates by a Slaughterfish appeals to you."

"There's an image I'll have to sleep with." Garent shook the water out of his hair and clambered his way back towards the shore, the cold air immediately biting at his flesh and bringing goosebumps to the surface. "So, where's this armor Frey was going on about?"

The Nord thief held out a pair of trousers looked to be made of leather. "Dry off and get these on," he ordered.

Garent quietly did as he was told, drying off as fast as he could and pulling on the pair of trousers. They fit tightly, but they were lightweight and easy to move in. He liked it. Next he pulled on the shirt and coat, and soon he was fully dressed in the Thieves Guild armor, stretching and flexing and jumping around to get used to the feel of the leather. "This stuff is nice," he commented happily. "I like this, it's really light."

"Has to be, if you're going to carry around whatever you decide to steal." Brynjolf watched with amusement glittering in his eyes. "Now, stop bouncing around like a rabbit and let's get back to the Guild. I'm tired." He turned on his heel and started the trek back to the city.

Garent scoffed. " _You're_ tired? I'm the one who's been running around doing whatever you tell me to do all day. It's been a long one."

"Cry me a river," Brynjolf called over his shoulder, sarcasm dripping from his tone. He sounded friendly, though. Garent smiled a little. "Once we get back to the Guild, just find a bed and fall down in it. Doesn't matter much as to which. Just leave your stuff in a drawer by the bed. No one will take it, we don't steal from each other." They stepped back into the main gates and walked along the shadows. However, Brynjolf didn't go towards the Ratway. "This way, lad."

Garent stared in confusion but followed the older man past the Temple of Mara, into the graveyard. "Why are we here?" Garent asked curiously. Brynjolf didn't answer, and instead walked into the tomb by the Temple. Garent followed closely, and watched as Brynjolf pressed a secret button. The coffin slid back into the wall, revealing a secret passage. "Now _this_ is impressive," Garent commented.

"Just be careful to make sure no one sees you use it. The Snow-Shod woman often goes over to the Shrine to Talos to pray. Make sure you aren't noticed, and you're free to use it when you like." Brynjolf led the way down the stairs and pulled the chain. Garent watched in fascination as the coffin slid back over their heads and into place. Completely unnoticeable. "All right, head on down."

Garent turned to see the porthole Brynjolf was indicating and nodded, shimmying down the hole and finding himself back into the Cistern. Two men were standing and having a conversation. Brynjolf came down behind him, sending some comment about getting a good night's sleep and walking off towards the Flagon. Garent looked around slowly. There was a man dangling his feet into the water, and from where he stood he could see Mercer leaned over his desk with an annoyed expression. The two men looked up at him. "Want to sit down and have something to eat?" one of them offered.

"Sure, thanks," Garent replied. He walked over to the cooking pot and sat on the floor with the two men. "I'm Garent."

"Name's Thyrnn," replied one of them, "And that's Rune."

"Rune? That's an odd name," Garent commented. The one called Rune laughed.

"Garent isn't?" He smiled at the boy in a friendly, good humored manner.

Garent laughed in reply. "Fair enough. Where'd it come from?"

The man called Rune smiled and handed Garent a plate. There was cooked venison and baked potatoes on the plate, along with a slice of cheese. He was handed a tankard of wine as Rune went into the story of how a farmer found him in the wreckage of a ship with nothing but some blankets and a stone covered in odd runes. The farmer adopted him, became his father, and named him Rune after the strange markings. Rune had spent all his money trying to find out where he was from, but there were no clues. Not even the mages at the college knew what those pictures meant. Garent listened while eating, and hardly stopped for breath while he did so.

"You never found out what the runes meant?" Garent asked curiously, all while stuffing the slice of cheese into his mouth.

"Never," Rune answered with a sigh. "Maybe I'm just not meant to know."

There was a short silence, and then Thyrnn laughed suddenly. "Damn, Garent," he shook his head, "You act like this'll be the last time you eat." It was true, Garent had yet to slow down in eating. He had never felt so full in his life, and he loved it. He could get used to living with the Guild. "Slow down, would you?"

"I'm starved," he replied with a laugh. "I haven't exactly eaten the best in the past few weeks."

The rest of the time was spent in laughter. Garent easily got along with these two, and knew he had made friends. That was easy enough. Finally, Rune stood. "All right, I'm going to bed. I have a trip to Markarth to make tomorrow." Garent waved as the man walked off to a bed not far away and plopped down. Within a minute, there was the sound of quiet snoring.

"I'm off, too. You better get some sleep, too, Garent. No doubt either Delvin or Vex will be sending you off somewhere tomorrow. Night." Thyrnn stood and Garent gave a nod, watching the other man move to the bed next to Rune's and quickly passing out as well.

Garent laughed. "Out like a light."

He stood up and wandered towards the door to the Flagon. There was an empty bed with his name on it. He was almost there when he heard the unmistakable sound of Mercer Frey's voice echoing through the Cistern, "Hey, boy. Come here."

Garent froze and turned around to see Mercer watching him from his position leaning over the desk. Garent suppressed the scowl that threatened to come over his face. What did that oaf want now? The boy considered not going. Frey hadn't woken anyone up with his calling. With a little sigh, Garent made his way across the bridge to finally stand in front of the desk. He resisted the urge to squirm under Mercer's glare. Was this man truly never happy? "Yes, Guildmaster?" He spoke through gritted teeth.

"Here, take this." Mercer shoved a book practically in the younger Breton's face. Garent's eyes focused on it. The cover read Shadowmarks. He took it carefully. "Read it and memorize it, understand?"

Garent opened the first page to see the picture of a sign. "What is this?"

"Shadowmarks," Mercer replied gruffly, "They're all over the place. In cities, on barrels and doors. Pay close attention when you break into anywhere. Make sure you know what they all mean, got it?"

"Sure," Garent replied quietly, flipping through the pages and pausing now and then to study the Shadowmark the page showed. He didn't notice when Mercer stepped out from behind the desk. He didn't notice when the stronger Breton stepped around to him. He was oblivious, right up until he felt a hand grasp his arm and wrench it behind him. Another hand grabbed the back of his neck and shoved him forward against the desk. "Hey!" Garent hissed in pain as his stomach pressed into the wood and papers flew off the top. "Let me up!"

"Listen closely," Mercer ground out, bending the boy's arm against his back and bringing a small cry from Garent. "You will do exactly as I say or you will do nothing at all. If you do your jobs well, you'll be paid in gold. Make a fool out of yourself and the Guild, you'll be paid in bruises. That stunt you pulled earlier this evening was out of line and completely _stupid_."

"You're the one who started it!" Garent hissed in reply, somewhat aware of how childish the words must have sounded. "I was defending myself, and you can't just-"

"Quiet!" Mercer tightened his grip on Garent's arm. "Another move like that, and I'll personally throw you around the training room until you've lost all direction. Do _not_ cross me, boy."

Garent gasped at the feeling of his arm being lifted farther up his back. He stood on his toes, flinching at the feeling of weakness as he was pressed up against the desk. A few letters dropped off the side. He squirmed under Mercer's weight and hissed in pain. The book was lying somewhere on the floor, discarded upon the attack. He writhed. "Do I make myself clear?" Mercer growled.

The boy squirmed a moment more before slumping against the desk in defeat. "Yes, _sir_ ," he spat.

There was a pause, and then he was suddenly released. Garent winced as he brought his arm back and stood up straight. "Good. Now get that book and read it cover to cover until it's memorized. Get out of my sight." Mercer turned, scooping up the papers that had fallen and dropping them back on his desk before walking back around and proceeding to go back to what he was doing. Whatever that was. Garent scowled and grabbed the book on the floor before practically stomping back over to the bed. He dropped the book on the dresser and barely took the time to take off his boots and hood before he tossed himself onto the bed and closed his eyes.

...

"Lad? Hey, wake up!"

Garent's eyes squinted shut and he let out a low groan. His back was sore, and so was his arm. What in Oblivion was someone waking him up for? "Go away," he grumbled, dragging the furs that covered him over his head with another groan. "Come back when it's not morning."

He could hear Brynjolf scoffed and felt someone pulling lightly at the furs. "That's enough, Garent. Mercer wants you up, he's letting Delvin send you on your first official job today. Now get up before he gets angrier than he already is." Garent felt another tug at the fur covers and held on tightly, refusing to budge. "Lad?"

"Mercer can fall in the lake for all I care," Garent growled in response. He still wasn't happy about the bruises on his back, nor the soreness in his arm. No, Mercer Frey had made sure they started off on a rough patch. And currently, Mercer Frey was all but Garent's enemy. He didn't give a damn what that rude, arrogant Breton wanted him to do.

"Lad," Brynjolf tried again, this time his voice coming off nervously.

"Can fall in the lake!" Garent repeated, pulling the covers securely over his head and rolling on his side. All was quiet for a moment, and Garent allowed himself a smile. At least the Nord had left him alone. Now he could sleep for a few more hours. He was just dozing off when he saw a shadow from over the blankets. In the next second, Garent was covered in icy water. He let out a scream and kicked at the now drenched blankets. He was tangled in them, though, and flopped entirely out of the bed. "What was _that_!"

Mercer Frey stood over him, a bucket in hand, and a smug look on his face. "Get up," he ordered. Garent glared in reply, still kicking at the blankets entangled with his legs. "Don't give me that look. Just get up and get dressed. Delvin would have a word with you about your first assignment. Don't screw it up." With that said, the Guildmaster tossed the bucket aside and strode back to his desk.

Garent's eyes wandered up to Brynjolf who was watching with his arms crossed. The older thief quirked a brow. "Don't look at me like that. I gave you a chance to get up on your own accord."

The boy let out a groan and rubbed his face, yawning. "Yeah, yeah. Okay, I'm awake. What was that about a job?" Garent clambered to his feet and grabbed at his boots, sitting down in the still drenched bed uncaringly and dragging each shoe on. He grabbed at the gloves on his dresser, and then the hood. Brynjolf was watching with a small frown as the boy moved groggily. He certainly wasn't quick when he first woke, after all, Garent knew Brynjolf must have been noticing that. Unfortunately, the young Breton was too tired and annoyed to care. Not to mention cold.

"Delvin will fill you in on the details," Brynjolf said casually, "He's hanging around the Flagon, you can't miss him. Big fellow, probably with a drink in his hand. He's the one with the job. Be thankful, usually it takes a few days before we can send a new recruit out in the field. Mercer specifically asked you take care of this one, though. It's a local thing, I think. Shouldn't even have to leave Riften."

Garent nodded as he stretched his back and yawned again. "All right, talk to Delvin. Got it. Anything else?"

"Yeah," Brynjolf replied, "Stop pissing off the Guildmaster."

Garent couldn't help but laugh, and though he tried to hide it, he saw the glitter of amusement in Brynjolf's eyes. He shook his head. "I'll be back," the boy called over his shoulder as he strode out of the Cistern.

The Flagon was just as bleak looking as usual. By now, Garent had learned to point how Thieves Guild armor, and he noticed almost everyone at the tavern was wearing it in some form or another. A pretty Redguard woman was sitting to herself in armor a bit like his, and the same woman with white-blonde hair from the other day was leaned against the wall. Her armor was a bit like Mercer and Brynjolf's, hinting that whoever she was, she had to be important. Vekel was standing at the bar, sweeping and all the while barking something at the Redguard girl. Something about rumors of an affair with Brynjolf? Garent's eyes landed on a big man drinking from a tankard and sitting amongst some papers. "Delvin?" Garent questioned.

The big man looked up. "The one and only," he replied, gesturing to the seat across from himself, "Pull up a seat. We need to talk business."

Garent strode over and sat himself across from Delvin. "So, Bryn said you had some work for me." He turned to Vekel and called over, "Bottle of mead, please."

"Sorry, kid," Vekel replied with amusement tinged in his voice, "Before you even got in here, Brynjolf specified I didn't give you any alcohol." Garent's face dropped, and Vekel laughed. "No drinking before a job."

The boy huffed in annoyance and turned back to Delvin, who was watching with a smirk. "All right, just tell me what this job is."

"Simple," Delvin chipped, "This here's a fishing job. Know what that means?" Garent shook his head. "It means you're going to do a bit of pick pocketing. There's a woman here in Riften who goes by Grelod the Kind. She runs the orphanage just by Mistveil Keep. She's got this... particular item that one of our clients needs. A gold necklace. Shouldn't be too hard. Just take it off her person, and remember, _no violence_. Not how we do things in the Guild. Bad for business, y'know?" The man tipped his head back and swallowed the last of his ale. "Think you can handle it?"

"Of course I can" Garent replied, standing. "Just sneak in, grab the necklace, and get out of there."

"And no violence," Delvin said again. Garent waved him off.

He took the long way, through the Ratway, if only to make sure he didn't have to even glance at Mercer Frey again. The man grated on his nerves more than anyone he had ever met. Just where did he get off, acting like he was superior, anyway? And that sneer! He looked like he had just been robbed constantly. As if _he_ had something to look so sullen about. Garent scowled.

He stepped out of the Ratway and squinted at the bright light. There wasn't a cloud in the sky to shield him from the sun, and as he walked along the streets of Riften he noted the way some guards looked at him with cautiousness, and others with acceptance. He vaguely remembered the guard who had tried to tax him for getting into the city. Garent took a wild guess that some of these guards knew and worked with the Thieves Guild. He wandered to the bazaar first, deciding to see what was going on. Haelga was wandering around, shopping and flirting now and then. He wondered if she had left Svana to do all her work. Madesi was selling some trinket to a pretty dark haired girl dressed nicely. From where he stood, he could hear the conversation.

"You're sure this will give my alchemy an edge?" she asked, picking up the little ring and studying it closely.

Madesi nodded and smiled. "Yes, my lady. I asked the Jarl's court mage to enchant that one. Should fortify any alchemy work you intend to do. May I ask, what do you want the ring for, Lady Ingun?"

The girl, Ingun, seemed to grow a little defensive. She shot a hard look at the poor Argonian. "That's really none of your business, Madesi. But if you must know, I've taken an apprenticeship with the alchemist living here. Any curve I can get, I'll take. Whatever it takes to make him see that I'm not just a bumbling idiot when it comes to these things. Now, here's the money for the ring. I'll be taking it."

Garent watched as she dropped the bag of coin on Madesi's stand and slipped the ring on her finger. Ingun smiled. "Perfect. Thank you, have a nice day, Madesi."

Madesi nodded, "And to you, my lady."

Garent slid his hood off as the girl started away. She was pretty, rather beautiful actually, and he found himself dashing to catch up with her. "Hello there," he greeted, stepping in beside her to walk. Ingun jumped a little.

"Oh, hello," she said. She sounded distant, but offered him a polite smile. "Good day to you."

"Indeed it is," Garent murmured, and then shot her a charming smile. "I couldn't help but notice your conversation with the Argonian. So you're an alchemist? I never had a hand at that sort of thing, you know. Tried a few times, but I almost always ended up burning myself up or making myself sick. Needless to say, I stick just buying my potions off the merchants." From the corner of his eye, he saw a building with the sign Honorhall Orphanage over the door. So that's where it was.

Ingun laughed lightly and paused at the stairs that would lead down to the lower walkway. "I've been fascinated with alchemy since I was a young girl. Mother doesn't approve, but the way I see things, I'm better off innocently studying alchemy than where my brother is; in the Riften jail." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I don't think I caught your name?"

Garent nodded. "It's Garent, and you're Ingun, yes?"

"That's right. Ingun Black-Briar. I'm sorry, but I can't be late. I _do_ hope we can continue this conversation later, Garent."

The boy grinned and nodded. "Of course. I'll see you soon, my lady."

As Ingun turned and started down the stairs, Garent thought he saw her face turn a light shade of pink. He grinned widely and waited until the young woman was gone, and then turned and stepped into Honorhall Orphanage. Immediately, he heard an old woman's voice barking insults and threats. He bent down, not wanting to be seen. "Now what do we say?" said the old woman.

"Thank you for your kindness," replied a chorus of sullen sounding children.

Garent felt his anger rise at their words. They had just been threatened with beatings and told no one wanted them! What was wrong with the woman? He caught sight of her, old, gray and bent, and felt himself reach for his daggers. It would only take a second. She was frail, he could kill her. Delvin's voice echoed in his mind, _No violence_. Delvin didn't know what this woman was like, though! Brynjolf's words also came to mind, _Killing's not my line of work._ Well, Garent had never swore he wouldn't kill some old hagraven for abusing children, now had he?

Then another's face came to his mind. Mercer Frey, standing over him with that godsforsaken sneer. Warning him to do as he was told. _Do your jobs well, and you'll be paid in coin. Make a fool out of yourself and the Guild, you'll be paid in bruises._ Garent shuddered. He knew Mercer of all people wouldn't feel remorse with this old woman, nor would he feel pity for these kids. Mercer didn't seem like the children-loving sort, after all.

Garent's fingers hovered at the hilts of the daggers before they pulled back. He scowled, clenching his fists, and sneaking forward into the room. Grelod was at the table, alone, with her back to him. He reached out and took the necklace with ease, and pulled back into the shadows. He wanted to slit this woman's throat. He desired nothing more than her blood on his hands, and her dead corpse lying at his feet. Another image of Mercer Frey made him slip back out into the sunlight, out of Honorhall Orphanage.

He stomped back through the graveyard, taking the passage after making sure the Snow-Shod woman wasn't in the middle of her prayers.

...

"Here's the damned necklace." Garent practically flung in onto the table in front of Delvin. He was seething. "Do you even _know_ what that woman's like," he barked, "She threatens and harms those kids, and she-"

"Lad, calm down," Brynjolf said carefully, reaching out to the boy.

Garent shoved the hand away furiously. "Don't touch me!" he snarled, "Do you _know what she is like_ , Brynjolf? Answer me." The Breton was seeing red now, and couldn't stop himself from pacing about the Ragged Flagon in blind rage. "Never getting adopted, she said. Nobody wants you, she said! Where in Oblivion does that woman get off doing that to a bunch of kids? I wanted to slice her throat!"

"You didn't harm her, did you?" Delvin asked, his tone coming out nervous.

"No, I didn't damn well harm her!" Garent shot back, "But gods I wanted to! Nothing would have made me happier than running my blade across her neck." He grabbed a tankard in his anger and flung it into the water. "I've never seen someone so horrid. Her very existence- How could you expect me to not get angry?"

"Brynjolf didn't expect you to be a sentimental sod," hissed another voice. Garent spun around to see Mercer Frey standing in the entrance to the back room. His arms were folded and he had a look of disgust plastered on his face. " _I_ however expected as much."

Mercer began to walk to the boy in great strides, his arms dropping to his sides and his teeth bared rather like a wild animal. Brynjolf tried to step in his way. "Leave the lad alone, Mercer. It was his first time, he'll get used to-" Mercer shoved past the taller man and reached a hand out, wrapping it around the boy's hair and yanking him forward. Garent hissed and swung his fists about furiously, unable to actually get a hit on the older Breton.

"Let go of me, bastard," Garent snarled.

" _You_ do not tell _me_ what to do," Mercer retorted, dragging Garent close to him so that their noses were nearly touching. "Now listen closely to me, because if I have to repeat myself you'll find yourself drowning there in the pool. Thieves are _not_ sentimental people. They don't _care_ about the financial state of whoever they're stealing from. They don't feel pity, or regret, or _remorse_." His fingers tightened in Garent's hair and the boy yelped, reaching up and trying to pull the other's hand loose. "We do not linger in the private life of those we steal from. We just _steal_. _Thieves_ do not hold the humanity of others."

"Then why don't we kill our victims, eh?" Garent spat back, his voice coming out strained as he felt his hair being tugged harder. Any harder and he was certain he would go bald. "Why's that such a golden rule, if there's no pity or remorse or _humanity_." The words came out as if they tasted of bile. He locked eyes with the Guildmaster. Mercer was glaring harshly at him.

"Because that would make us the Dark Brotherhood," Mercer replied snidely, "We're not assassins or murderers, boy." Mercer shook Garent's head in his grasp, causing the boy to let out a low groan. "Thieving requires a lack of humanity, it doesn't mean we're savages."

 _Could've fooled me_ , Garent thought bitterly.

The Guildmaster seemed to sense what the boy was thinking, because he let out a low growl and tugged on his hair once more. Garent all but whimpered. "I told you to do as you're told," Mercer accused.

"And I did!" Garent said in a gasp, "I didn't kill her. I stole the necklace and left." Mercer was still for a moment, his hand still wound in the red hair. Garent was still. Mercer Frey seemed to him like a wild animal ready to attack at any moment. A wolf ready to bite into his throat. The older man's eyes were glowering at him, and if looks could kill, Garent was positive he would be a dead man.

It seemed like an eternity before Mercer said in a cold voice, "Next time you're given a job, get it done and don't complain about it. Or we'll give it to someone else. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," the younger Breton murmured, almost sullenly.

Mercer gave a last look of disgust before he shoved Garent straight to the floor. The boy landed with a grunt and shot a glare up at the Guildmaster. Frey was shoving past Brynjolf now, who was stunned to silence for that moment, and leading back to the Cistern. There was the resounding sound of a slamming door, followed by tense silence.

Garent stayed where he was, lying on the grimy floor. There was a soreness rising in his scalp. Brynjolf was the first to move, walking over cautiously to help the boy up. Garent took the hand offered to him silently. "Don't take it personally, lad," the older man was saying, "He's just set in the ways of the Guild. He's only looking for what's best for the Guild."

"He's only looking to be a horker-faced git," Garent answered furiously. He brushed himself off with a light scowl on his face. "And he's doing a fine job of it."

"He's right, though," a woman's voice said. Garent turned to the nearly white headed woman he'd heard went by Vex. "If you're going to work with us, you can't be sentimental. Their lives don't matter to us. We may not kill them, but that doesn't mean we can care what happens after we steal from them or what's going on in their lives. You can't afford to have thoughts like that. If you had killed that woman, you would've put the entire Guild in danger. Can you imagine what would have happened if one of the guards chased you back here? The entire operation would have been blown to Oblivion."

"You're a part of the Guild now, lad," Brynjolf commented, "That means you're a part of this family. Family watches out for each other."

Garent's stomach turned. Every word they spoke rang truth in his mind, but he wouldn't admit it. His fists tightened again and he pursed his lips. "All right," he said quietly, yielding, and nodding his head in agreement, "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Just don't let this sort of thing keep happening, kid," Delvin replied. The big man had grabbed a bag of coin from his pocket and now tossed it to Garent who caught it. The sound of jingling, the movement of the coins within the bag. It still wasn't familiar with the young Breton. "There's your pay for the job. I've got nothin' else for you."

"And you probably won't for awhile," Garent replied with a snort, his tone flat and humorless.

Delvin shrugged. "That's the way the business goes," he answered.

Garent put the coins away and gave a nod to the others in the room, turning towards the Ratway. "Where are you off to now?" Brynjolf's voice came behind him.

The Breton kept his tone casual as he called over his shoulder, "Down to the lake."


	4. Sparring

**Hello, to anyone who's made it this far! Honestly, there's a possibility I'm just writing to thin air. I don't mind. Anyway, to anyone who has made it this far into To Be A Thief, thank you for sticking around, I appreciate it. Also, any critiquing, advice, etc. is much appreciated. Thanks for reading!**

Lake Honirch held a certain calmness to it. As Garent hung his feet over the side of the docks, he felt his pulse slowing, his heartrate returning to its usual calm beats. His boots were sitting alongside him, as was his hood. His red hair almost turned golden in the light of the sunset now, making a halo of bright light surround his head. His eyes were lowered to gaze into the water. A few salmon were drifting a little way from his feet. Now and then he would feel a nipple at the end of his toes and they would involuntarily curl, resulting in a flash of scales as the fish darted away.

He had never felt so sick in his life. Sure, Garent had done illegal things before. Even as a child, he remembered sneaking through neighbors' windows, snooping through chests and drawers, and taking little trinkets and sparkly things he had found pleasant to look upon. Those things had long been pawned when he needed food or had a desire for some _other_ shiny thing. The youth distinctly remembered stealing a sapphire from his neighbor's strongbox when he was nine. A beautiful thing, flawless in shape and form. He had taken it to the shopkeeper and asked for a price. The old man had asked questions about where he had gotten it, and finally his father had gotten involved. He had no choice but to tell the truth; he had stolen it. His father had tanned his hide, he had been certain he'd never sit again.

This was different now. He saw the faces of the children in the orphanage. He could see the old woman's. Her twisted scowl was branded into the backs of his eyes almost as permanently as Mercer Frey's furious snarl. The Guildmaster infuriated him. And more so, the Guildmaster _frightened_ him, though he wouldn't admit it. The image of blood trickling from Frey's nose entered his mind and he smiled.

A short distance away, an elk darted along the water's edge. A beautiful buck, it splashed through the shallow water onto a nearby island. A more genuine smile crossed Garent's face.

"They're lovely creatures, aren't they?"

Garent jumped as a woman's voice came from his right. He turned, seeing Ingun standing by the shore with a basket in hand. "Care to join me?" she asked in a friendly tone, "And we can finish our conversation."

There was a slight smile on her face, obviously wanting nothing other than his company. Garent stood, grabbing his boots and shoving the hood into one of his pockets. He hopped down the stairs and joining her. "I would love to," he replied, though his voice was even and without emotion. "What are you doing?"

If Ingun noticed his mood, she didn't comment on it. Instead she said, "I'm looking for ingredients for my experiments. Nirnroot, Slaughterfish eggs, that sort of thing." She turned, walking along the shoreline. Garent followed. "I tend to use up Master Elgrim's ingredients a lot. He says it's fine as long as I go out and find him more. The trouble is, with the wilds being so dangerous nowadays, that's difficult. Mother and Father don't approve of my alchemy study, and so they refuse to pay the difference. I'm on my own."

"The dragons, you mean," Garent said distantly. His mind flashed to the dragon at Helgen. Big, black, and deadly, the thing had _spoken_ to him. He hadn't understood what it had said, but it had spoken. He had crawled down Bleak Falls Barrow looking for that damned Dragonstone tablet and had nearly gotten himself killed by bandits, spiders, and draugr. And then that writing on the stone wall! It had leapt from the stonework itself and into him. And when he had helped to kill the dragon attacking Whiterun and the feeling of its soul leaping into him, and they had told him he was something called the Dragonborn? He had ran. All the way to Riften.

Ingun nodded. "Yes, the dragons. I hear they're all over Skyrim now. Must be something."

"Have you seen one?" Garent asked. He could feel Mercer Frey's hand in his hair still, tightening its grip until he felt as if his scalp would come apart.

"I haven't," Ingun answered, sounding almost depressed, "Have you?"

The Breton hesitated. "I was in Helgen when it attacked, and in Whiterun when the guards killed the other. I was helping them fight it. I helped to kill it." His words didn't come out boastful as he might have intended any other day, but instead they were quiet, distant, and all together sounding as if the entire event was truly unfortunate.

Ingun paused, her eyes widening in excitement. "You were? Oh, then you must have seen the Dragonborn! Did you? I heard the Greybeards called him, but no one has heard word whether or not he's made it to High Hrothgar. What was he like?"

"Seemed like a real git to me," the Breton answered, a scornful tone in his voice. "I left shortly after the battle and made my way here, he didn't say where he was going." He didn't say what he had thought. That the legendary Dragonborn was really just a Breton hardly old enough to be called a man, and was scared out of his wits when they told him to use the Voice and he had actually _done_ _it_. That the hero that was both dragon and man had ran away from Whiterun when the Jarl told him about the Greybeards. He had stolen enough money to get him to Riften, which seemed far enough away from the Throat of the World for him. He had ran, and ran, and ran.

The young woman seemed disappointed by his description of the fabled hero. She frowned. "That's a shame," she said quietly, and in the next moment she pointed, "Look! Nirnroot!" Sure enough, Garent could hear the faint and distinct sound of Nirnroot growing and he could see the glow. "Perfect."

Ingun ran towards the Nirnroot, bending down and gently picking it away from the water. She laid it into her basket. A slight smile crossed Garent's face and he laughed softly as the young woman looked around happily, her eyes trained to find the ingredients she searched for. When she didn't see anything else, a look of content passed over her face and she waited for the Breton to catch up to her. "Nirnroot is harder to find," she commented as they continued their walk, "It grows near water but never grows in the same place twice. Looking for it is tedious. It's like a wild card, you never know when it will show up."

"Have people tried putting it in gardens?" Garent asked, looking at the glowing plant. He thought he could remember his aunt growing a concerning obsession with it. He had never been very interested in it.

Ingun shrugged. "I'm sure some do, but I was never one for having a green thumb." She laughed. "Unfortunate, it would have made things a lot simpler."

They were silent for a long while, the only sound being their footsteps; Garent's splashing in water, as he had yet to actually put his boots back on and he liked the feel of the cool water, and Ingun's sinking slightly in the mud. They walked until Riften was no more than a few lights, and the sky had darkened into night. Garent paused. "I don't think you'll find anything else for today," he commented, "Let's get you home. It's getting cold."

"It's always cold here," Ingun replied with a sigh. "You're right though. Mother will be wondering where I am."

They turned, squinting in the dark as they walked. The moon was not out tonight, and the beautiful array of lights that sometimes lit up Skyrim's sky was not here, either. The silvery stars that speckled the sky did little to bring light, and Garent noticed the girl tripping regularly on a stone or piece of fallen log. Finally, he reached out to take her arm, stopping her. "Here," he said gently, "This will help."

He opened his palm and allowed a ball of light to appear. The Magelight spell lit up around his head, hovering. Ingun gasped softly, seemingly entranced. "Not afraid of magic, are you?" he joked, "I don't use it a lot anymore what with living in Skyrim. Nords aren't exactly the most open-minded folks, after all."

The young woman smiled slowly. "It's beautiful. So many colors." She sighed, perhaps a little dreamily, and looked to him. "That's a lot better, thank you."

The light of the spell worked wonders on the girl's abilities to walk. Every while or so the light would go out and Garent would pause, open his palm, and bring it back to life once more. They had made it back into Riften's walls in no time. Ingun paused at a rather large town house. She smiled at him. "Thank you for the company," she said, "I enjoyed it. Perhaps we can meet again?"

Garent grinned. "Gladly," he answered. Ingun seemed to smile, and Garent continued with a charming tone, "Good night, my lady."

"And to you, too," she answered, opening the door and sliding inside with a last glance.

The young Breton's eyes seemed to gleam happily for a moment and he chuckled. Turning on his heel, he all but skipped back to the graveyard, for a while forgotten his earlier feelings of guilt. He swung down the secret entrance and dropped into the Cistern with a quiet thud. For a moment, he was still. Riften's thieves were all very much asleep it would seem, the Cistern filled with quiet snores. The last thing Garent wanted to do was wake one of them up. Or draw any attention to himself, he noted, thinking about the Guildmaster.

He sighed, quietly slipping closer into the large room to see everyone asleep. Everyone but- _Does the man ever step away from that damned desk? Only when he wants to tear you a new one._

Mercer didn't seem to have noticed him yet, which was good. That was the last thing he needed. He kept to the shadows, slipping closer to his bed. Almost there when- "Aren't you up late?"

 _Damn_.

Garent spun around to see the Guildmaster watching him from the other side of the Cistern. Mercer's eyes had locked on to his, forcing him still with his gaze. Garent swallowed thickly, moved from one foot to the other. He allowed a burst of confidence to rush through him and looked the man up and down. "Aren't you?" he retorted, his voice echoing through the Cistern but waking no one up.

He couldn't be certain, but he thought that he heard Frey scoff- or maybe even snort?

The younger Breton found himself walking towards the desk in long strides. He stopped a few feet short, just for safety reasons. Mercer seemed the type of man to draw out a sword and stab you if you weren't paying close attention, after all. Actually, Mercer just seemed the type to draw out a sword and stab you. Period.

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" the older thief mocked. Garent looked at him for what felt like the first time. He had first thought Mercer's hair dark in the shadows of the Cistern, but now that his eyes so easily adjusted he could see that it was actually a blondish color, slightly graying from the looks. His eyes were green, too, though not the same forest green of Brynjolf's. This was a dark green, eyes that had a story to tell but refused to do so. Windows that were locked up tight. Mercer was leaning on his desk as he always seemed to be doing, and Garent briefly wondered if the older man's back ever hurt him doing that. He considered asking.

"I'm not a child," Garent spat out, a little harsher than he intended to. He realized this only after the Guildmaster's eyes flashed with anger and the man scowled. Garent tried not to shudder and tilted his head downward, eyes still locking with Frey's. "Why are you still awake?"

Mercer really did scoff this time - a humorless noise that sounded like disdain - and stood up straight, beginning to walk back and forth behind his desk. "That's none of your business, now is it?" the Guildmaster all but growled.

"You were asking me," Garent pointed out, watching the man as he paced. It seemed to be a habit of Mercer's, now that he thought about it. It wasn't continuous, however. Mercer paused for a moment before he turned, as if thinking, and would stare off at something before continuing. He didn't seem interested in Garent at all. The younger thief wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed.

"You realize how childish that statement sounds?" Frey ground out finally, one eyebrow raised. "That look's going to get you in trouble, boy. Wipe the glare off your face." Garent's eyes widened, and his glower dropped in sheer surprise. He thought he saw Mercer's lips tug at the edges in some smirk of sorts. "There. That's better."

The boy's face reddened, either in anger or by embarrassment, and he sighed. "Is there a reason you called me over, Mercer, or can I go to bed now?"

Garent folded his arms, eyes narrowed, shoulders squared. Mercer seemed to be sizing him up, much to his discomfort, and Garent's stomach dropped when he saw that Mercer's hand was at the hilt of the Dwarven sword strapped to his side. Surely, Mercer wouldn't just attack him. If the Guild were against killing, Mercer shouldn't have anyway. Garent had a sneaking suspicion, however, that Mercer was not one that always played by the rules.

It seemed like an eternity before the older Breton finally gave a nod of dismissal. Garent's body seemed to relax and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He took a step back, not wanting to break the eye contact with the Guildmaster, not wanting to turn his back on Mercer. The older man seemed to notice this, and he could have sworn he saw a glimmer of dark amusement in the man's eyes as finally Garent turned from him, all but running back to his bed.

Garent took the time to undress this time, first kicking off his boots and setting them at the foot of his bed. He took off his gloves and hood and tossed them onto the dresser, and then tugged the coat of the armor and set it aside. He stretched his arms over his head and shook out the dark red curls that were getting a little too long to not be a nuisance. He let his eyes wander back to Mercer Frey, standing, back bent over that damned desk and staring at the ledger.

The younger Breton rolled his eyes and dropped down into the bed. He tugged the blankets over himself, thankful that they had mostly dried since the morning. The furs were a welcome to him, and he easily curled up under their warmth and slipped off into a dreamless rest.

...

 _The smell of smoke wafted through the city, putting any in breathing distance in a choke hold. Garent could feel his eyes watering, his throat closing in as he inhaled. He coughed, trying to rid his lungs, and wiped furiously at his eyes. A steel dagger was on his hip, bouncing against his thigh as he ran alongside his father. People were screaming. He could hear a baby crying._

 _"This way," his father barked, dashing through the backstreets of the city with his son in tow. Garent was eleven, and although the hot-headed boy had been known to get into fist fights with the other boys, he had never even seen a bandit, much less fought an entire clan of them! Suddenly someone was in front of them; a beefy man with a shock spell ready in his palm and an axe in the other. Garent's father drew his blade and shoved the child backwards, throwing himself into combat. Garent winced as he saw shock spell narrowly miss his father. The bandit's axe found it's way to his father's arm, landing a cut that instantly began to bleed. The man growled, swung his sword, and the bandit soon found himself without a head._

 _Garent stared down at the scene with a sick feeling. He only moved when his father sheathed his sword and grabbed the boy by the arm. "Come, there isn't much time."_

 _The two made their way through the alleys, ignoring fire and screams as they ran, and finally they slowed at a manhole with wooden covering. Garent's father kicked the entrance and the rotting wood gave way, revealing the ladder inside. He turned to his son. "This will lead you out of the city and to the pond, hear me? Don't stop running. Whatever you do, do not stop running. Run all the way to the damned border, but do not stop."_

 _"Father, I-"_

 _He was cut off as a bag of coin was thrust into his hands. "Don't argue," the man ordered. Garent looked up to the man, putting his features to memory. Long red hair that was turning gray near the roots, dark eyes, a thick beard that was also beginning to gray. "Just run, all right? Don't come back, don't even look. Just keep running until you see Skyrim's mountains."_

 _There was shouting, someone was yelling, "This way! I think I saw something!"_

 _Garent's father looked back and cursed quietly, then turned to his son, taking his shoulder and pushing him towards the ladder. "Go!" Garent didn't argue. He could see shadows of men with weapons on the building nearest them, and he ducked down into the sewers, nearly falling in his haste. He landed in the ankle deep water with a splash and took off in the only passage he could see, the sounds of his footsteps in the water drowning out the battle cries from somewhere over his head._

 _He ran, and did not stop running until he could finally see the light of day at the end. Garent fell out of the sewers, landing in the pond beneath, and splashing, sputtering, and gasping his way back to shore. He slowed once he finally got his feet on dry ground and turned to see the city he had run from. It was miles away, but still he could see the smoke rising in the distance. Garent hesitated, wanting to go back, to find his father, to mourn the loss of his mother. He did not, though. He turned, seeing the road before him. He took a breath, and began his sprint once more._

Garent woke with a start, sitting straight up in his bed. There was an orange light coming from the top of the Cistern, telling him the sun was just rising. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. The bed nearest to him was occupied by Rune, and the one after that looked like Cynric. From somewhere in the Cistern, he could just _faintly_ hear the sounds of a sword swinging.

The young Breton climbed off the bed with a low grunt. He groggily grabbed at his clothes, getting himself dressed and half stumbling over to the nearest table. He picked up a slice of cheese and bit in, looking around for the source of the noise. The training rooms, from the sounds of things. Garent passed through the Cistern, his feet hardly making a sound on the stone floors. He looked into the training room, seeing Thyrnn swinging away at the practice dummy in front of him. "Isn't it a little early for that?" he asked in amusement.

The ex-bandit chuckled. "Not at all," he answered in his usual hoarse voice, "Just some extra practice in before a job later today."

Garent wandered over to the pile of hay by the shooting targets and sat himself down, feet drawn up with him and crossed casually. "Where you headed?"

"Markarth," the man answered, his voice coming out strained as he swung his blade again. "Ever been?"

The Breton shook his head. "Can't say I have. But to be honest with you, the only two cities I've been to are Whiterun and Riften." He laughed. "I only got here recently, you know? Though I've been trying to make it here for a few years. I got a little distracted, I suppose you could say."

"Oh yeah? With what?" Thyrnn backed away from the target dummy as if sizing up an enemy, and then lunged.

Garent shrugged a bit. "Revenge, I guess you can say. I couldn't leave High Rock without it." His hands absently tugged at the daggers in his hands. He had lost the one he'd ran away with when captured by those damned Imperials. Never mind that, though. These would do just as well. He twirled one of the knives between his fingers.

Thyrnn paused and straightened himself, panting softly from his one-sided fight. He turned, one hand resting on his hip, the other lowering the blade so that the tip rested on the floor. "You really fight with those things?" he asked curiously. "And actually do damage?"

"More than what I ever have with swords, bows, or any other weapon," Garent replied with a laugh. Thyrnn scoffed, and the younger man raised a brow. "What, you don't believe me?"

The ex-bandit paused, and then a slow smile spread across his face. "Go and grab two of those practice daggers and convince me."

Garent knew he should have at least thought about the challenge before he accepted. He was never one to back down from a fight, though. Not when he was a little kid, not when he was a wandering orphan, and certainly not now. So, the young Breton climbed off the haystack and set his two daggers down, walking over to the weapons racks and picking up two of the dull, iron daggers that were kept for training. "Before we do this," he said slowly, "Just to be clear; only a friendly brawl, no actually _dangerous_ weapons?"

Thyrnn nodded with a smile. "This is just one of the practice swords, iron's dull and everything. Come on, show me what you got."

Garent took the daggers in his hands, feeling the familiar hold of the hilts, the short blades feeling like mere extensions to him now. He began to circle the room slowly, his stance defensive, his eyes on the Guild member who was doing the same. Neither of them made a move to attack. They kept their steps even careful, and by all means, ready. Neither of them noticed Sapphire stepping in, curious as to what was going on. Neither of them saw her sit down with an amused glint in her eye, either.

Thyrnn was the first to attack. He let out a battle cry, lunging forward and swinging at the smaller man. Garent was ready, and nimble as ever he dove out of the way, rolling to the side and quickly standing up, daggers up in defense, a smirk on his face as the Nord swung at air and had to turn himself quickly to see the Breton. Garent paused, letting the man regain his footing before he began to circle again. The ex-bandit only hesitated a moment before he lunged forward again, and the boy side stepped away, stepping gracefully away as Thyrnn's weight sent him farther than he had intended and he stumbled. The Nord turned with a frustrated growl. "What, are you a dancer?"

The Breton laughed cheerfully. He twisted one of the daggers in between his fingers. "Maybe you're just slow," he taunted, his eyes glittering with amusement as the Nord scoffed.

"Come now, you can do more than just stall and dodge. Or at least, I should hope," Thyrnn added snidely.

The man took a step towards Garent, and this time the boy didn't dodge. He used the momentum of Thyrnn's attack against him, and cleanly swung his right dagger down to parry the attack to the floor whilst his left shot out, pressing against the man's neck while he quickly pressed his boot onto Thyrnn's sword. The Nord's eyes widened and he looked up at the boy from his slightly bent position. "All right," the man commented quietly, "Not bad."

Garent laughed and pulled the dagger away quickly, taking his foot off of the blade and instead using it to push Thyrnn's shoulder. The Nord went backward, barely keeping himself on his feet. The acrobatic Breton grinned. "That better?" he teased.

Thyrnn scoffed. "Much."

Sapphire smirked in amusement, and Cynric stepped in quietly to join her.

Garent bent his knees slightly and once again began to circle the man who did the same. He was faintly aware that they were gaining a small audience, which was only pressing him further to continue. He swung his daggers in the air theatrically and suddenly rolled at the man. Thyrnn gasped, taking a step back from the blur of leather that came at him. Garent paused on the ground for a second, in which he kicked the man's legs out from under him. He brought the dagger just below his chin, gently pressing against his throat. "That's two. One more shot."

He could feel the vibration of Thyrnn's growl from his dagger and chuckled, rolling away from the man and standing up, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in his readiness. He caught a glimpse of Brynjolf walking in curiously, followed by Vex, Vipir and Rune. So they had half the guild watching, then? He should make this one count.

Thyrnn obviously felt the same way, because he suddenly stood with blade in hand, determination glittering in his eyes as he rushed at Garent with new verocity. Garent had to narrowly duck or risk getting the side of his head bashed in by the dull blade. He stepped to the side, swinging his left dagger while tossing the right one high into the air. Thyrnn was preoccupied by parrying the dagger coming from his side, and was caught off guard by Garent's hand coming down on his neck. The man grunted, falling on one knee just as Garent cleanly kicked him backwards and caught the airborne dagger. He quickly knelt on Thyrnn's chest, pressing the dagger at his throat. "I win," he said calmly, a slow smile spreading across his face.

The ex-bandit didn't seem to be sure what had happened. The man's painted face was red with exhaustion and he was panting. It was several seconds before finally the Nord laughed. "Damn, kid," he muttered as Garent stood up and sheathed one of the dulled blades. He took the hand offered to him. "You fight good."

"My turn," said a feminine voice. Garent looked in surprise to see Vex holding a dagger in one hand and a sword in the other. His eyes widened as the older woman stepped forward. "Unless you've lost your courage."

Thyrnn had backed away, put the practice sword away, and went to join Cynric and Vipir who were already making bets. "Um," Garent started, about to back away. He hesitated, and then smiled, taking out the small blades once more. "All right."

Vex was faster than Thyrnn, and although she was small, she was strong. She could have been an assassin, Garent thought, by the way she fought. He'd hardly seen someone look so beautiful in the middle of a fight. It took everything in him to dodge her attacks at first, let alone land his own blow.

He brought one of the daggers to parry her own, and used the other to hold off the sword trying to find its way to his abdomen. The Imperial woman promptly brought her foot up and kicked him in the stomach, sending him staggering a few feet away. He grunted, winced, and narrowly rolled out of the way of the dagger flying right in his direction. It landed in one of the practice dummies, just barely missing Cynric. "Hey!" he thief snapped, "Watch it, Vex!"

The woman was hardly paying him any heed, she was already sprinting in the direction of the young Breton who side stepped and swung his arm at her back. Using all his strength, he shoved her with his forearm and Vex went rolling, gracefully landing some feet away. "Bunch of acrobats!" scoffed Vipir, "Both of them!"

"Look who's talkin', _Fleet_ ," Garent retorted, all while jumping just out of a blade's reach. This brought a barking laughter out of Sapphire, who had to lean against the wall for support.

"You're quick," Vex commented, barely moving out of the way of a dagger against her head, "Where'd you learn how to fight like this?"

"Where did _you_?" Garent replied, swiftly kicking her in the chest and watching her fall backwards with a grunt. Garent dashed to disarm her, but the woman recovered before he could. "Damn it."

Vex laughed, bringing her leg high and at Garent's head. He brought his arm up to block her and grabbed her ankle, twisting it. Vex flipped with a yell, falling onto her stomach and rolling out of the way of Garent's dagger. "You almost got me," the Imperial muttered.

"Almost isn't good enough," the Breton answered.

He rolled out of the way and held the daggers up, taking the split moment to size her up. She had to have a weak spot. There was a slight limp to her leg now, on her left side. All he had to do was exploit that. He hadn't any more time to consider, she was on him again, his time up close and personal. Garent didn't bother moving out of the way, instead blocking the blades that came at him and keeping as close to her as possible. He had no problem with the shortened space, but obviously it was making using a sword a problem. Vex growled in annoyance.

"Don't you know what personal space is?" she growled, yelping as Garent finally was able to knock the sword cleanly out of her grasp. It slid to the other side of the room and there was a hush over the crowd of thieves watching. It was hard work to disarm someone like Vex.

Garent took his chance. He knocked his knee into her left leg and it immediately buckled. Vex fell to one knee and Garent pressed one dagger to her throat, the other trapping her at the back of her neck.

Both were panting heavily now, but Garent knew he had won. He could feel the eyes of all the others staring at him, waiting to see what would happen now. Vex's face was unreadable. "You are good," she murmured, looking the younger boy up and down. "Not bad at all, kid."

A wash of relief fell over Garent and he pulled the dulled weapons away. Vex stood, brushing herself off. "I want a rematch before this week is up," she was saying, "And another after that. Honestly, I could use a good sparring partner."

Garent's eyes found Brynjolf's. The man was standing with his back against the wall, a faint smirk on his face. He nodded, some small sign of approval, and Garent couldn't help the crooked smile that came across his face. "I believe it's my turn," said a voice from the door, making the smile immediately fall from his face.

Mercer Frey stood at the door, his shoulder leaned against the entryway casually. Garent couldn't help but wonder, how long had he even been there? The older Breton's face was a mask, as per usual, no emotion showing on his face. In the light of the training room, Garent could easily make out the slight lines of age that were beginning to appear across his face. The Guildmaster looked paler in this light, the color of his hair easier to see, the color of his eyes never clearer. Garent felt his stomach drop. The entire room went quiet. "Master Frey?" he managed.

The Guildmaster pushed himself off the wall and strode into the room at a slow pace. If Garent could have, he would've let himself fall through the floor. Anywhere but here, in the middle of the training room, with a dangerous Mercer Frey ready to cut him up. As it was, the older Breton drew out his sword; a gleaming Dwarven thing that Garent had to admit was beautiful. "What?" the man asked, as if Garent's hesitance was something entirely odd, "Just a spar. Right?"

He wasn't sure what made him nod his head in agreement. Perhaps it was the taunting gleam in Mercer's eyes, daring him to back down just as well as daring him to fight back. Maybe it was the nervous stares the Guild members gave him, Bryn's included. He was quite certain he heard his mentor murmur, "Watch it, lad," under his breath. Whatever the reason was, he found himself pulling the dulled knives up into defensive position. "Yes, Guildmaster."

Something crossed Frey's face that was neither a smile nor a smirk. If anything, it was some grinning leer that did nothing but frighten him. It reminded him of a wolf's snarl, it showed too many of the man's teeth, and made him seem as though he were baring fangs. Garent suppressed a shudder and gave a nod to the man, and slowly began to encircle him.

Mercer held the sword aloft in one hand, eyes watching the boy but never did he move. He was still. It made Garent all the more nervous as he examined the Dwarven blade in the man's hand. That thing was sharp, and would cut him to pieces if he let it. Mercer wasn't using one of the dull blades as he was.

Garent dashed suddenly at the Guildmaster, rolling to the side and swinging the blades at his legs. Mercer moved easily, and brought his foot to kick the boy sharply in the forehead. Garent grimaced in pain as he fell backwards, for a moment seeing stars. He heard footsteps running at him and gasped, jumping up and away just in time. Mercer's blade swung a second later, right where he had laid. He took a quick glance at the Guild members who were watching. He met Brynjolf's eyes, imploring him for some silent advice, or maybe a miracle. The older thief had none.

A second later, Garent felt a sharp kick to his chest and went sprawling. "Pay attention," the Guildmaster barked irritably. Mercer paused just a few feet from where Garent was lying, waiting for him to get up now. The boy sat up and winced, certain he would have more than a few bruises within the hour. A glint came to his eyes and he stood, bringing his blades up in a fighting stance again. For a split second, he thought he saw Mercer smirk.

Garent rushed at the man a second later, rolling out of the way of the blade and standing just as Mercer turned to swing again. He brought both daggers up to block it, having to hold both weapons over his head and crossing them as the blade came down swiftly. For a moment, both the men were without a move, Garent trapped under Mercer's blade and Mercer's blade stuck on the daggers. They both gritted their teeth, trying to push their weapons against the other's. Finally, Mercer growled and brought his head down on the younger Breton's, causing the boy to yelp and stumble away. He paused, wincing at the throbbing in his forehead, and one look from Frey told him he was feeling the same. "Nobody wins in a head-butt," the boy stated, slowly regaining his stance. Mercer made a rasping bark that might have been a laugh.

The Guildmaster sprinted at Garent again, and for a split second Garent was frozen in fear. He moved at the last moment, anticipating the man to run right by him and ready to send the dagger down on his back. Mercer didn't pass him, though, and instead turned as soon as Garent side-stepped and swung his blade down. The flat of the sword knocked painfully against Garent's legs and he was sent flying, all but hitting his face. He moved to stand, only to feel a very familiar boot pressing into his back. In the next second, he felt the very tip of a blade pressing against the back of his neck. "I win," the Guildmaster breathed.

There was a moment of tense silence as Garent laid there, unable to so much as twitch, and Mercer kept most of his weight on his back. He couldn't breathe very well, and he was beginning to get nervous. He waited silently.

Mercer pushed himself off the boy, getting one last low grunt from Garent as he stepped away, sheathing his sword. Garent gasped for air, rolling onto his back and sitting up. He eyed Mercer, who was striding back towards the entryway. "Just so we're clear," the Guildmaster drawled, "I could have killed you three times over in that fight."


	5. Some Light Theft

**Shorter chapter today. The next will be longer. To anyone reading, I hope you enjoy. Advice and critiques are always appreciated!**

Garent and Brynjolf stood in the bazaar, both dressed in fine clothes - Brynjolf the same blue robes Garent had met him in, and Garent wearing a green robed outfit with fur over the shoulders - looking around slowly. It was very early in the morning, and in fact the sun was only now rising. Garent was tired, sore from his multiple spars, and had never been a morning person anyway. He had considered refusing Brynjolf when the man had woken him up. However, upon peeking out from beneath the furs of his bed and seeing Mercer watching closely, he decided to get up. He'd gotten dressed in the nice clothes with a slightly disgusted look.

"Why are we here again, Bryn?" he asked sleepily. Only a few guards were walking around the city now. He leaned against the short wall beside Brynjolf's stand and folded his arms.

"We're waiting on a client," the older man explained. "She'll be here soon enough. You're not well off in the mornings, are you lad?"

"I am not," agreed the boy with a sigh. "Who is the client, anyway?"

He pushed himself off the wall and, after glancing around for on-looking guards, he pulled the lid off a barrel and took out one of the green apples inside. He tossed one to Bryn and then picked up another for himself. Dropping the lid back down on the barrel, he sat on top of it and bit into the apple. "Her name's Maven," Brynjolf answered, "Maven Black-Briar. She practically runs the city, despite what the Jarl would have you believe. Make no mistake, when someone wants something done, they go to Maven, not Laila. And let me tell you, if the Imperials were ever to gain control of the city, Maven would take Riften."

Garent paused and looked at his apple. "Black-Briar? As in the mead?"

"That'd be the one," Brynjolf replied. "Maven has stuck with the Guild through good and bad. She's our most influential client at the moment, and the most loyal. We do what she wants, and we remain a true Guild."

"So, what does she want?" Garent finished the apple and then threw it into the well. "Do you think that leads back to the Cistern? Hope it doesn't land on anyone." He laughed.

Brynjolf opened his mouth to reply, when a woman's voice cut him off. "Brynjolf, you're here early." Garent spun around to see a woman striding towards them. She was dressed in dark red clothes and her black hair was brushed back. She looked to be somewhere in her forties, perhaps, with a look of superiority in her eyes. Something about her was familiar, Garent thought. "Good. The better we get this done with the better."

"Always a pleasure, Maven," Bryn replied in a friendly tone.

"And who is this?" Maven Black-Briar's eyes went to Garent. She seemed to be staring down at him over her nose, which all but made Garent squirm. Something about the woman was unsettling. She was obviously influential. In a way, he could see her ordering someone's execution. He felt like in some, illegal way, she already had. He didn't want to be one of those people.

"This? This is our newest recruit," the older man answered, clapping his hand down on Garent's shoulder. "A bit of an apprentice, under myself."

Maven's eyebrow quirked. She looked at the boy a moment longer before her attention turned to Brynjolf. "Goldenglow has been compromised," she said easily. Garent was sure he saw Brynjolf's face go pale before reddening in a sign of quick anger. "Aringoth has cut all ties. He's hired mercenaries. I sent Maul over just yesterday to speak with him, but he was quickly run off." Maven's lip curled in disgust. "All shipments have ceased."

"Aringoth has stopped shipping the honey?" Brynjolf scowled.

"Let me put this simply," Maven said. A guard walked by, paying no heed to the three of them. "Without those shipments, I can't make Black-Briar mead. If I can't keep a supply of honey for the meadery, you and your thieves won't be getting any payment." She folded her arms. "I want you to take care of this as soon as possible. I don't care what you do, but get someone in there and find out what's going on."

Without waiting for reply, Maven Black-Briar turned on her heel and strode off, leaving a gaping Garent and a seething Brynjolf behind. "What was that?" Garent finally whispered.

" _That_ is a problem," Brynjolf answered quietly. "Listen, I'm going back to the Cistern to speak with Mercer. We need to get this straightened out as soon as possible. In the mean time, I've got a job for you."

"You have a job for me?" Garent repeated curiously, "I thought I was a waste of space and couldn't be sent out on jobs anymore."

Brynjolf chuckled. "Well, you'll just have to prove Mercer wrong. Now, listen close. Delvin set this one up for you. It's a bedlam job. Know what that means?" Garent shook his head. Bryn grinned. "Every now and then, a city will start to get a bit... Unruly. And so, we go through and steal things, anything really, just until they get the picture. It's simple enough. Just don't get caught, or you forfeit payment. And you know the rules, no killing. We need five-hundred gold worth of items right now. Up for it?"

"Definitely," Garent answered with a grin.

Brynjolf smiled widely. "Fantastic. Get a move on, lad. I'll see you down in the Flagon later."

Brynjolf turned on his heel, striding back in the direction of the graveyard passage. Garent's eyes landed on the Mistveil Keep and he grinned wickedly. He could see a few guards standing post there. He chuckled. He knew exactly where he was going to get five-hundred gold's worth of items.

He strode up the stairs casually, giving a nod to the guards. One of them reached out, stopping him. "Official business only," said the guard. His accent was thick, obviously a Nord. Garent could see brown eyes behind his helmet.

"This _is_ official business!" Garent insisted, crossing his arms as if he had been offended. "Sir, don't you know who I am?" Silence followed as the two guards looked at one another. Finally the guard shook his head.

"Can't say I do."

"Ah, I see. You weren't told. I'm expected by the Jarl. My name is Ren Golden-Helm. Eldest son of Severin and Felicia Golden-Helm. Surely you've heard of my clan?" Garent tilted his head downward and watching the two guards expectantly. He scoffed at their silence. "Oh, I'm sure you have. My family is one of the richest of High Rock. We own seventeen major mines there. I'm here on official business to make some deals with the Jarl. Now please, if you'll excuse me. I'll be sure to tell Jarl Laila what a wonderful job you're doing here."

The guards seemed to perk up and nodded quickly. "Of course, I believe I _have_ heard your name!" He held out his hand towards the doors. "Please, go on inside."

Garent smiled and saluted the two guards. "Much appreciated, gentlemen," he replied, striding in with a sense of purpose.

The throne room was a large, spacious room with many tables covered in food. The Jarl was preoccupied talking with a younger, well dressed man with a goat skin around his shoulder. Something about her younger son. It was easy for Garent to stick to the wall and slip right past them and the guards stationed here and there. He took a right once he had made it to the hall, and found himself in a bedroom. Quietly, he shut the door behind him.

The room was full of riches. Garent wasn't sure whose room this was, but whoever stayed here was living well. There was a particular display case filled with jewelry that caught Garent's eye. He estimated over a thousand gold pieces in that case, more than what Brynjolf had asked for. And that was just what he wanted. He walked to the display case and took out a lockpick, leaning forward and gently going to work to pick the lock. It took a few tries and half a dozen picks, but he managed to unlock it finally and opened the case with a wry smile. "Perfect. We'll see who's a waste of space."

He picked up the necklaces and rings, glances at a few random gems on the table as well. A sapphire, two garnets, and a ruby. He swept them off the table and stuck them in his pockets. After he had emptied the chest by the bed and the wardrobes, he slipped back out the door and down the hall. His pockets were full, but he wasn't quite ready to leave yet. He continued down the hall and up the stairs into the Jarl's Quarters.

This room was just as wealthy as the other, if not more so. He took out gold from the chests and gems he found at random. A glow caught his eye and he tilted his head, looking at an unusual looking gem on the table. He picked it up gingerly and shut the box it sat in, sticking it in his pocket. Finally, after going into each of the rooms and finding all he wanted, he crept back out.

He slipped past the guards and back out into Riften, running down the steps and chuckling. It had been easy, and not to mention, it had been fun. He all but skipped back to the graveyard, sneaking in and pressing the button that would let him into the Cistern.

He was greeted with the sounds of Mercer Frey shouting.

Garent squinted to see what was going on. Mercer was standing at his desk as usual, with Brynjolf, Vex, and Delvin standing around him. "Listen to me," spat the Guildmaster, "If something's going on at Goldenglow I want to know what it is. Get in there and find out what's going on."

"I'll get going," Vex said quietly, her voice echoing in the Cistern.

She turned, walking towards Garent. "There you are. Steer clear of the Guildmaster if you want to keep all your appendages. When I get back, you and I can have a spar in the training rooms. That is, if you're up for it."

Garent smirked. "Ready to lose again already?" he replied in a friendly tone.

Vex laughed in reply, shaking her head and going past him up the ladder.

The boy's eyes found Brynjolf, who was walking off towards the training room, and he ran after him. "Bryn!"

Brynjolf paused and turned around. "Back already, lad?" he asked curiously. "How'd you manage to get five hundred gold's worth of items that quick?"

"Easy," Garent replied, "I went to the richest place I knew." He winked, pulling out the gems and jewelry and dropping them in Brynjolf's palms. He pulled out bags of coin and enchanted daggers, and random bits of enchanted armor. "This should be worth five hundred, right?" He glanced over at the Guildmaster's desk. Mercer was watching closely.

"You went into Mistveil Keep?" Brynjolf asked, looking over the multiple trinkets he had just been handed. "That was a risky move, lad."

"It would've taken forever to get it all if I hadn't," Garent answered with a shrug. "The guards let me in with no trouble, anyway." He grinned.

"Got to say, I'm impressed," the older man commented, chuckling. "Good job, lad. Here's your pay, and here's the items you stole. Keep them or sell them off to Tonilia. Your choice, but best not to get caught with them all." He handed the handfuls of gems and jewelry over to Garent. The boy took them with a grin, nodding as the Nord turned and went towards the training room. Garent spun on his heel, walking to his bed and shamelessly stripping off his clothes to adorn his armor.

He glanced over his shoulder and realized Mercer was still watching him. Garent paused, meeting the Guildmaster's gaze. His eyebrow quirked, as if to say, "Is there something you want?"

Mercer's lip curled and he looked back down at the ledger on his desk. Garent smirked, turning on his heel and striding towards the Flagon.

He looked to Vekel first. "I'll have that bottle of mead now," he said, a wry smile plastered on his face as he walked over to Tonilia. The Redguard looked up at him with a raised brow. "What'll you give me for these?" he asked, dumping the different trinkets on the table she sat at. First the jewelry, then the gems, and finally he pulled out two of the enchanted daggers he'd stolen before pausing. "Actually," he said, "I think I'll keep these." He put them back carefully.

Tonilia stared at the stolen goods in amusement. "Had a busy day?" she commented, picking up a rather expensive looking necklace and studying it carefully.

"Something like that." Vekel tossed a bottle of Black-Briar mead at Garent, who caught it, uncorked it with his teeth, and downed half of it in a matter of moments.

"Well, let's have a look," Tonilia muttered, taking each trinket in hand and offering a price. Garent sat down, considering the price and whether or not he was being cheated. Tonilia assured him this was the best he would get them for, and so he nodded once each time and sipped the mead again.

When it was all said and done, he was over a thousand septims richer. Garent stared wide eyed at the bags of coin Tonilia had given him. Delvin glanced over and laughed. "Being in the Guild pays off, eh?"

"I've never owned this much money in my life," answered Garent disbelievingly.

Delvin chuckled. "Well, it only gets better the more jobs you can take."

Garent snorted. "I don't know when that'll be, though," he muttered. He looked at the bottle in his hand. "I can't tell if I like the taste of it or not," he commented to no one in particular, "It's got a funny taste and I can't tell if it's good or not. I think I just like the after shock." Thoughtfully, he took a sip and quirked a brow. "It's definitely the after shock."

He sat back in his chair and finished off the mead, asking Vekel for another drink. The Man complied, tossing another glass his way with a shake of the head as the boy popped off the cork and drank. Garent looked around the Ragged Flagon with a raised brow. "What happened to this place?" he asked quietly, "I heard it wasn't always like this."

"Oh, it wasn't," Delvin grunted, "This place used to be filled with money and life, and work. There used to be shops lining up all around the Flagon, and the place truly was the City Under The City." The older man sighed and leaned back, tipping his head back to finish a drink. "Vekel, bring us over a bottle of that Spiced Wine from Solitude, would ya? Anyway, about twenty-something years ago, our luck turned sour. The Thieves Guild practically fell apart. The shopkeeper's left, and so did half the Guild and our clients. The only one who really stuck around was Maven, and even she had her doubts."

Vekel came around and placed a bottle of wine at the table and Delvin picked it up, pouring two tankards full and pushing one to Garent. "Try a bit of that," he coaxed, and the boy complied, taking up the tankard and drinking. This had a _much_ better taste to Black-Briar mead. "Eh?"

"It's good," Garent commented, a bit meekly, as he finished the tankard a bit too fast and the room spun. He heard Delvin laugh as the feeling lessened. He felt the man take the tankard away and a moment later it was placed back in his hand, filled once more. He sipped, slower this time. "So, what happened to the Guild?"

He heard Tonilia scoff from somewhere behind him and Dirge chuckled. "Well, this lot thinks I'm a fool," Delvin said, his tone annoyed, "But _I_ think we've been cursed."

Garent looked down at the cup of wine in his hand. He swished the liquid around, thinking, and finally he said, "What do you mean, cursed?"

"I mean, somewhere along the way we've pissed somethin' off," Delvin answered, finishing the cup of wine and pouring himself another glass. He sat forward, looking at Garent closely and speaking quietly, "And the only way to get through it is to show this _curse_ who's boss and fight our ways back to the top. The only way to do _that_ is to start takin' jobs!"

"Well, I agree with you on one thing," Garent said with a sigh, "The only way the Thieves Guild will get back to the glory days will be through jobs."

The two were quiet for a moment, drinking the wine and contemplating the future of the Guild. Garent hadn't felt so at home in forever. He sat in the Flagon as though he sat with a family, just as Vex and Brynjolf had said. He smiled to himself. "So, how did you get here?" he asked suddenly.

Delvin chuckled. "Oh no," he said, "We ain't goin' down that road." The big man finished another cup full of the alcohol. "Around here, past don't matter much. What matters is the here and now. And I'm here, now."

Garent smiled a little. "I understand," he said quietly, "Unfortunately, for myself, the past is everything. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the past. I wouldn't even be in Skyrim." Garent finished the tankard and poured himself another glass, his desire to keep out of his old life drowned out by the alcohol. "Half my life has been cycled around the past. All my goals, all my desires, all had to do with the past. But now I'm here, and that's all behind me. For awhile, I was without purpose. I suppose it's a good thing I made it here."

He stood up, stumbling for a bit, and then grabbing the back of his chair to hold himself up. "You know, I really hate getting up early. Think I'll go take a nap."

Delvin's eyes followed the boy as he stumbled back through the passage. He thought he heard the man mutter something, but he wasn't sure what. He practically fell into Rune, who was standing by the door to the Cistern. "Whoa! Feeling all right?" the man asked curiously.

"Yep, perfectly fine," Garent slurred, before promptly falling onto his bed and falling asleep.


	6. Shadowmarks

**So sorry for delays! This chapter is a bit longer... actually it's a lot longer. Hope anyone reading enjoys.**

Garent woke later that day with a splitting headache. This headache was only amplified by an irritated looking Mercer standing over him, barking orders and threatening to flip him out of the bed and straight into the Cistern if he didn't get up. "I've got a job for you," Mercer was saying, "But if you don't get your ass out of bed, I'll give it to someone else."

"I'm up, I'm up," Garent growled, sitting up and wincing at the pain that shot through his skull. "What sort of job?"

"Not that it should matter," Mercer said coldly, "But it's a fishing job. There's a man in Solitude that goes by Melaran, an Altmer Mage living near the Blue Palace. He's got an object that's caught the interest of one of our clients and I want you to go get it from him. He shouldn't be hard to find, he spends most of his time in the Blue Palace. Just don't get caught. I'm not sending anyone to get you out of jail if you get yourself in trouble, hear?"

"How do I get there?" Garent asked groggily.

Mercer's eyebrow quirked. "You've never been to Solitude?"

"I only got to Skyrim a few weeks ago!" the younger Breton defended, but the Guildmaster did not look impressed.

"Just go outside and tell the carriage driver you want to get to Solitude, he'll give you a ride. Shouldn't be too high a price."

Garent nodded, clambering out of the bed. "Okay, what am I after exactly?"

Mercer watched the boy closely, and Garent resisted the urge to shudder under the man's gaze. Mercer made him more nervous than he would care to admit. "It's a circlet," the man said finally, "Made of emerald and gold, enchanted. It will fetch a high price, no doubt. Just get it here without a problem, and do not make a fool out of yourself. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," replied the boy dryly.

Mercer nodded, then gestured to the ladder leading out of the Cistern. "Get going, and don't come back without that circlet."

"I got it," Garent muttered, stepping past the Guildmaster and striding off towards the ladder. "Get the circlet and get back. I'll be back in a few days." Garent mounted the ladder and climbed up, coming out just beneath the cemetery. He crouched down and pulled the chain, poking his head through to see if anyone was watching before he climbed out of the secret tunnel and headed towards the Temple of Mara.

It was sunset now. Garent took notice of the way the golden light touched the colors of the trees. It was a beautiful sight. He sighed, walking past the market and to the main gates. "Try to hide it all you want," said a voice near him. He turned to see a guard. "I know Thieves Guild armor when I see it."

"Good for you, friend," Garent muttered as he went on through. He strode over to the carriage driver and smiled charmingly. "I'd like to hire your carriage," he said.

"All right," replied the driver, his accent thick, "Where do you want to go?"

"Solitude," the boy answered, already climbing into the back. "Here's the money."

He sat down with a light groan and rubbed his face. The driver took a moment to count the coin, nodding after making sure it was all there. "All right, get comfortable. It's a long trip to the capital. Have you been there before?"

"No," Garent grunted in reply.

The carriage driver hummed. "Beautiful old city," he commented, "Lot of men riding up that way to join the Legion. I carried a whole cart full of want-to-be soldiers just the other day. Lively bunch of boys, they were very excited to join in the fight. I'm a Stormcloak supporter myself, but I don't discriminate when I'm getting paid. What are you going for?"

"Got a job," the boy replied gruffly, feeling the carriage start to move. For a moment, he remembered sitting side-by-side Ulfric Stormcloak himself, a great big man who had a tendency to loom over others. He remembered being forced down on the executioner's block, the dragon landing on the tower, Shouting right in his face. Ralof had urged him to follow, but Garent had lingered in the doorway and stared out at the sky that seemed to rain fire and brimstone. He'd felt a hand grab the back of his shirt and drag him inside. It had been none other than the leader of the rebellion. "Thinking about taking an apprenticeship with the blacksmith."

"Noble cause," the driver commented, "Where do you stand on the war, then?"

Garent was quiet. He hesitated, and then said, "I don't stand on the war at all. If these Nords and Imperials would stop to think about what they're _really_ fighting for, and really look around them, everyone would be a lot better off. Skyrim's got enough problems right now to have to fight over all this nonsense."

The driver was quiet for a moment and then gave a nod. "Respectable thinking," he replied. Garent couldn't help but think he sounded offended.

Garent closed his eyes and slid down on to the floor of the cart. He was still drowsy, to say the least. Mercer had woken him abruptly and he hadn't had time to get himself moving. He yawned. "How long a ride did you say this would be?" he called out curiously.

"If we don't make any stops other than the obvious and the horses don't act up, we'll be there in a day's time, day and a half maybe." The carriage driver sounded friendly once more, and they had picked up speed. Garent could feel the uneven cobblestones beneath the wheels. Now and then the carriage would lurch. They would hit a stone in the road or a crag.

Garent placed his hands under his head and ignored the rumbling below. "Wonderful. Do me a favor, wake me when we get somewhere close." The boy got himself comfortable, and a moment later there was the soft sound of snoring.

...

The trip was peaceful, if not boring. Now and then a few wolves would get brave and attack the horses. Garent would flip out of the cart and kill the beasts easily enough. They were stopped by bandits once, but they too were quickly dispatched by the young thief. The rest of the trip was quiet, other than the cart driver randomly singing old Nord songs and chattering on about Solitude.

Finally, the trip came to an end in which Garent was dropped off just at the bottom of the hill leading to the city. The boy made his way up the path, meeting the eyes of a guard as he went. "Welcome to Solitude, stranger," said the man, "You're just in time for the execution."

Garent ignored the cryptic words of the guard and finished the trek to the main gates. He pushed them open and stepped in.

There was an execution, all right. Some poor sod named Rogvir or something, Garent didn't stick around to find out. He passed the growing crowd, ignoring the shouts of disgust towards Rogvir. A little girl raced past him, nearly running right into him as she went. "Watch out!" he called after her, and watched her run off with a sigh. He shook his head.

He had to admit that Solitude was an impressive city. Perhaps if he'd had the time, he would have stayed a few days and seen what the city had to offer. The carriage driver had mentioned plenty of tourist attractions. The Bard's College, Castle Dour; home of the Imperial Legion, and The Blue Palace. Radiant Rainments was apparently some fancy clothing shop which sold clothes to every wealthy and famous person in all of Skyrim. Other than that, there was a stand somewhere in the market that sold a wonderful spiced wine. If he hadn't been on a job, he would have bought a bottle. As it was, he got teased for his inability to hold alcohol enough.

Garent came upon what he could only guess was The Blue Palace. Rightly named, the gigantic building's roof was a beautiful royal blue. He paused at the doors and took a breath. Mercer said that Melaran was a High Elf living near the palace, and that the man spent most of his time inside. It was heavily guarded, but hopefully no one would notice if a visitor happened to bump into a mage. He strode in confidently, nodding at the guards who welcomed him and warned him to keep out of trouble.

The palace was large on the inside, too. With guards posted in the first lobby, more were standing by a set of staircases and a few more were wandering the hall. Garent silently cursed. This was all he needed. He was about to back out when a voice spoke to him, "The court is having a meeting now. You'll have to wait here."

Garent spun on his heel to see who had spoken. He craned his neck to look up at the tall Altmer who was staring down at him. "I'm sorry?" the boy questioned.

"The court, Jarl Elisif's court. They're currently meeting, so if your intentions were to go and speak with one of them I'm afraid you'll have to wait." Garent looked the man up and down. The Altmer was certainly dressed as a mage. This had to have been Melaran.

"Ah, right," Garent said, realizing he was getting rather curious looks from the Altmer and a few others, "Of course. I'll wait. Thank you." He nodded, and the Altmer went off to sit near the door. Garent went to the chair across from him and sat, pushing back the awkward feeling rising in his stomach as he watched Melaran out of the corner of his eye. How was he supposed to pickpocket the man with so many people? And anyway, there was nowhere for him to keep into shadows. He couldn't steal the circlet here. It was impossible. He would get sent to jail. And as Mercer had so nicely put, no one would come get him out if he did.

"So," Garent asked casually, "What's your job around here?"

Melaran looked up and raised a brow. "My job? My job is to make sure Erikur doesn't get himself killed," he replied coolly. The young Breton resisted the urge to shudder. He had always found the Altmer beautiful, though they frightened him. He had heard they lived to be two-hundred years old, but Garent had yet to encounter a High Elf that looked old. He had heard stories of Thalmor, too. They did not sound like kind people.

"So, you're not the jarl's court mage?" Garent knew he was stalling. He had no choice, though. He had to think of something fast.

"No," Melaran replied curtly, "That honor falls upon Sybille Stentor."

"Sybille Stentor?"

"Sybille Stentor has a grasp of magical theory that I would never have expected from a human. Even a Breton." Garent realized Melaran was beginning to sound pestered, and he chose that moment to be quiet. He would have to wait until later to steal the circlet. He stood.

"I believe I'll come back later. Excuse me." He quickly left through the doors, making sure to keep his face casual up until he had stepped back out into the sunlight. It wasn't until then did his expression fall to a panicked one and he dashed off to hide in the underbrush. He would wait for Melaran to go home tonight, and there he would steal the circlet.

...

Garent stayed true to what he had decided. He didn't move from his spot, crouched and hidden in the bushes. He stayed there the entire day, until the sun began to set and he saw the familiar Altmer man walk out with another well-dressed man. They were talking about something, though Garent had no idea what. He simply crept behind them, following them until they got to a large house and went inside. Garent stood some distance away and stared at the house. He would wait until it was late and he was certain they would be asleep. Until then, he didn't see the harm in buying one bottle of that spiced wine.

The young Breton hadn't had spending money in a long time and he had almost forgotten what it felt like to treat himself. He made it to the market just as a few stalls were closing and strode up to the woman with a smile. "Hello there," he said in a friendly tone, "One bottle please."

He dropped the coin on the counter and took the bottle, popping out the cork between his teeth and taking a long drink. It was wonderful, rather like what Delvin had let him try a few days before. He wandered the city for the next few hours, drinking and stopping now and then. He spent a great deal at the Bard's College where he sang along to Ragnar the Red and The Dragonborn Comes. They offered him a place in the college.

"Afraid I'm not a bard," Garent had replied casually, taking another drink from his bottle.

"Ah, but you could be made to be!" the man had insisted.

Though Garent had refused, he did gladly take a lute from one of the players and dance along with them while they fed him mead and more wine. By the time the sun had fallen and night enveloped them, he was drunk.

The boy left the college and stumbled away, the lute he had been given as a present strapped to his back. He made his way to Erikur's house by some struck of luck, and somehow managed to pick the lock to the bottom floor.

The room he entered was a cellar of some design. He picked up a bag of coin on the table and quietly clambered up the stairs. He could hear two different voices snoring somewhere above him, telling him the household was very asleep. A few shiny trinkets caught his eye and he grinned. _I'll show the bastard waste of space._

He cleanly swept them off the tables and made sure to take every pricey ingredient, gem, weapon, and garment he saw. By the time he had found Melaran's bedroom, he was carrying a little more than he could handle. He still managed to swipe the circlet out of the Altmer's inventory and stumbled his way back out of the room and down the stairs. He scrambled out the door and down the streets. It wasn't until he outside of the gates of Solitude did he throw his head back, and let out a Shout of joy.

 _That'll show that old thief._

He drunkenly stumbled down the hill to the carriage driver. "Take me to Riften!" he shouted in a slurred voice, throwing himself into the floor of the cart. He scrambled to sit down and threw the twenty septims at the wide eyed driver. Garent grinned and pulled out the lute he had been given. "Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red!"

...

The trip back to Riften was less than as enjoyable as the first night. When Garent woke that morning, he had an awful headache. His embarrassment only heightened when the carriage driver casually told him what had happened. "After a few rounds of Ragnar the Red you started shouting some song about a frowning orc parting ways with an elf. When you ran out of songs to sing, you offered to cut off my beard with your daggers and then tried to cut off my horse's tail. By the way, boy," the man paused, "How long have you been able to do that?"

"Do what?" Garent asked gruffly, his head in his hands.

The carriage driver hesitated before he said, "Shout."

Garent stiffened. He looked up slowly and pressed his lips together. "I'm not what you think I am," he said quietly. "I'm not Dragonborn. Don't mistake me for that fellow."

The carriage driver frowned and glanced behind him at the boy. "Oh? Then what was that I saw last night? You Shouted right into the sky, made quite a racket, too."

"I'm a Breton," Garent said, trying to quickly think of a lie.

"Yeah? So?"

"So, don't you know anything about magic?" The carriage driver was quiet, giving him his answer. "It was a spell I did, not a Shout. Something similar, though. I learned it back home. Now do me a favor, don't mention it to anybody." Before the carriage driver could utter a word, Garent threw a bag of coin at him. "That will be enough to keep you quiet, or my blades will get the job done."

The carriage driver made a noise of discomfort. "Of course," he agreed.

"Thank you. Now, where are we?"

"You were out most of the day, so now we're just a little past Whiterun. Got a bit more to go."

"Good. Please, no disturbances. I'd like to sleep for another day."

The rest of the trip was in mostly silence, except for the random sounds of the cart driver's humming some bard's song or another. By the time the trees' leaves grew the color of gold, a sure sign Riften was near, Garent's headache had faded and he was more than anxious to get the circlet to Mercer. Not to mention, all the goods he would sell off to Tonilia. This would surely prove his worth as a thief to Frey. He grinned at the mere thought.

By the time he climbed out of the carriage and thanked the driver, Garent was happily walking into Riften. It was good to be back, he would admit. The colors of autumn had become a welcoming sight to him. He walked to the graveyard, whistling as he went, and after checking for onlookers he made his way through the secret passage.

Vipir and Sapphire were right at the door when he got inside. "So, Sapphire," Vipir began in what Garent could only assume was a lame attempt at being casual, "Have you reconsidered my offer?"

"Vipir the Fleet," replied Sapphire nastily, "Only a true fool names himself after his own blunder. I'll want nothing to do with you."

Vipir's face turned red with embarrassment and for a moment, Garent thought the man might explode on the spot. "Stupid cow!" the man shouted, "You don't know what you're missing!"

"What, no welcome home?" Garent cut in, before Vipir could unleash any more damage and Sapphire would have to retaliate. The two whirled around in surprise.

"Garent," Sapphire stated, blinking, "You're home. We were beginning to wonder what was taking so long."

"Mercer's been waiting for you," Vipir added, "He's at his desk."

"Lovely," Garent muttered, rolling his eyes as he walked by them and made his way around the Cistern. Mercer was flipping through a book. "I have the circlet," he said as he approached, taking it from his pocket. "Here you go." The boy set it on Mercer's desk. The older thief looked up at the trinket with an even gaze.

"No trouble?" Frey asked finally.

"Course not," the boy replied confidently.

The Guildmaster nodded. "Good. Go talk to Delvin about your pay." He went back to his reading, much to Garent's dismay. Not even a comment on a job well done.

 _The nerve!_

He made his way into the Flagon and looked at Delvin. "Mercer said something about you paying me," he said.

Delvin looked up in surprise. "I see you're back," the man commented. He reached into his pocket and held out a bag of gold. "One hundred septims, right here."

"Thanks. Now, where's Tonilia?"

"Over here," the Redguard called. She was sitting at the other table, drinking from a tankard. "What do you need?"

"What'll you give me for these?"

Garent dumped the many trinkets he had taken from Erikur's house onto her table. A few enchanted blades, gems, armor, necklaces, rings, ingredients, potions, and books now littered the space in front of her. The entire Flagon paused and looked up. Tonilia eyed the stolen goods in surprise.

"Lad," Brynjolf said, "Where did you get all that?"

"I did a little sight seeing in Solitude," Garent replied to the Nord, looking at Tonilia again. "Well? Got a price?"

Tonilia quietly looked over each stolen item carefully, analyzing its price as the others watched. Finally she said, "All of this together? Worth about four thousand septims."

Garent heard Dirge give an impressed whistle.

"Damn, kid," he commented, "Did you leave anything in Solitude?"

"The entirety of the Blue Palace," Garent replied with a laugh. "Sounds like a deal, Tonilia. I'll take it."

The Redguard counted out the coin and handed them in bags to Garent, who took them happily. Brynjolf laughed. "You're catching on quick then, eh lad?"

"Vex, you up for a sparring round? We can make bets if you like," Garent called, looking to the white-haired Imperial.

Vex scowled. "No, thanks." She turned, marching in the direction of the Ratway.

Garent watched her go. "What's her problem?" he asked, directing his gaze to Brynjolf.

The Nord sighed. "The Goldenglow job didn't go too swell. Vex barely got out of there alive, and she didn't recover anything. Her pride's pretty hurt right now. But enough of that, if you're so eager to go into the training room, come with me. I want you to practice your lock picking skills. The more you practice the easier it will be for you to break into strong boxes and houses."

Garent nodded, putting his pay away. "All right." He turned and followed his mentor back through the secret passage. "So, what happened at Goldenglow?"

"Aringoth has hired trained mercenaries," Brynjolf replied quietly, "He's got himself locked up in there, safe and sound. He's stopped all honey shipments to Black-Briar Meadery. In other words, Maven's livid." He sighed as they entered the empty training room. "You got anypicks on you?" he asked.

Garent nodded, holding up a few lock picks. "Good. Try that one first, it should be easy enough." Brynjolf leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "Anyway, Vex came back a few hours after you left. She was all scratched up, really it's a miracle she got back alive. Not that she sees it that way."

The young thief knelt down in front of the first locked chest and took out a lock pick. It wasn't very difficult and he had the chest opened in a few moments. "Not bad, lad. To the next one, just over there. It's a bit more difficult."

"So, what's to be done about Goldenglow?" Garent asked as he slid over to the next chest and stuck the lock pick inside. It jiggled a moment, got stuck, and Garent paused and gently moved the pick to the left.

The older thief sighed. "Mercer's furious, which is no surprise. He's currently formulating a plan, but whether that means he's actually thinking or plotting someone's demise is questionable. Best stay clear of him for awhile, lad. And be gentle with those picks."

Garent made a small noise of recognition and nodded, and after a moment the lock gave way and the lid popped open. "There we are."

"Where the hell is he!"

Mercer Frey's voice rang all throughout the Cistern, reaching even the training room clear as a bell. The two thieves inside froze and looked up in unison at the outburst. "Where's the kid?"

Garent didn't need to go into the Cistern to know who Mercer was talking about. _What could I possibly have done?_ He winced.

A few moments later, he heard footsteps striding through the hall that would lead to the training room. A furious looking Mercer Frey stepped in a second later. His eyes snapped to Garent and he snarled. "Brynjolf, get out."

Garent stood quickly, and Brynjolf pushed himself off the wall. "Mercer, slow down. What's going on?" The Nord sounded concerned, and took a step to stand in between the young thief and the Guildmaster.

"I'd like a word with your _apprentice_ ," Mercer sneered, his fists balled tightly, "about his latest _job_."

Brynjolf paused. "What's he done?"

Mercer was quiet a moment, and then quietly he said, "He stole the majority of Erikur's possessions. Erikur, as in our already very annoyed contact in Solitude!" Garent felt his stomach drop. "A courier just came into the Flagon and told Delvin Mallory that Erikur is furious. He says when he woke, not only was his home missing of the majority of its valuables, but it also looked as though it had been ransacked by bandits!"

The look on Frey's face was one of absolute thunder. Garent had scarcely seen a face so furious, and he couldn't help the fear that swelled in his stomach and clenched around his heart. He couldn't breathe. He felt like he might be sick. Brynjolf looked pale. "Mercer," the Nord tried, "The lad didn't know. I'm sure he'll pay off what-"

"That's just _it,_ Brynjolf!" the Guildmaster barked, "He did know better. Or he would have if he had listened to anything I've told him so far." Mercer's eyes found the boy and narrowed darkly. "Now, I'd like a word with the boy. Get out."

Brynjolf's eyes widened and he shook his head. "Mercer, leave the boy. He's just learning, he thought he was doing good. Calm-"

"Brynjolf! Get out, _please_ ," snapped the master thief.

The two thieves locked eyes for a moment, and Garent had half a mind to sneak his way out of the room. He could make a break for the graveyard passage. He would run to the stables and steal a horse, and ride all the way back to the borders. He would change his name, maybe hire himself out as a bard or a sellsword. He would leave the Thieves Guild behind and get on with his life. The problem was, he didn't want to leave. Brynjolf had said this was his family now. To tell the truth, this _was_ the closest thing to family he had now. He didn't want to leave.

"It's okay, Bryn," Garent said quietly, "I'll find you later."

Brynjolf shot the boy a look that told him to be quiet, but after a moment the Nord made a small noise and looked at Mercer. "Be easy on the lad," he said finally, and turned, walking out of the training room.

"Go to the Flagon! And make sure nobody's in the Cistern!" Mercer shouted after the man.

Not a word was spoken until the sound of the creaking door to the Flagon echoed throughout the Cistern. Garent was stiff. Mercer wasn't looking at him now, but was staring off at the entrance to the training room as if listening for anyone who might have been eavesdropping. He finally turned to Garent. "Tell me everything that happened while you were at Solitude," he growled.

"I didn't know he was a client to the Guild," Garent defended quickly, "I swear, if I had known I wouldn't have touched his things. It's just that I couldn't get the circlet off Melaran at the palace. There were too many guards! Someone would have seen! And you said if I got sent to jail no one would bail me out, so I didn't want to risk it." He could hear his own desperation in his voice as he spoke. "So when I followed him home, I broke in and-"

"Tell me _everything_ that happened, Garent," Frey barked. Garent shuddered. Mercer never called him by his name. "What did you do between the time they got home and the time it would have taken them to go to bed?"

"I waited near the house," he tried helplessly.

"Do _not_ lie to me. You're a terrible liar. Tell me the truth."

Garent winced, and before he could stop himself the words came out, "I went to the market and bought a bottle of wine to drink while I waited. Then I wandered around the town, and stopped at the Bard's College. They were having a party of some kind and I joined in. I had a few more drinks." The look on Mercer's face made the boy flinch. "I'm sorry."

"What happened after you got yourself drunk? Or do you _remember_ anything after that?"

The boy looked down. "Everything else is kind of fuzzy. I broke into the house and realized whoever lived there was wealthy. I figured it would be a nice bonus in the job. I didn't know he was a contact, I swear! I'm sorry!"

Mercer's lip curled in a look of disgust. "Tell me, Garent, when you were drunkenly breaking into the house, did you happen to take a look around? Happen to see anything peculiar? Did you ever _look_ at that book I gave you?"

"Book?" Garent repeated meekly.

Mercer looked like he might have exploded on the spot. Garent had never seen the man so livid. The Guildmaster's eyes seemed to darken considerably and when the older man next spoke, Garent was certain he could feel ice come off the man's tone. "The book I gave you a few nights ago. The one titled Shadowmarks. The one I told you to learn cover to cover. Did you so much as open it?"

If it were possible, Garent would have fallen through the floor. His stomach felt as though it had dropped into some pit and he felt weak. "I- I haven't had the-"

"Of course you hadn't," Frey hissed.

"Guildmaster," the boy tried quietly, "I'm sorry. Please, I-"

"Quiet!" Mercer's voice rang through the training room and Garent flinched. All of his confidence had faded. Again, he wanted to run out of the Cistern as fast as he could go. He had half a mind to turn around now and run. Fear that the Guildmaster would catch him, along with the fear that he _wouldn't_ , kept him from going.

Mercer growled, sounding to Garent like a rabid wolf, and strode over to the younger Breton. Garent let out a shout as the front of his shirt was grabbed. Garent was lifted into the air by the older thief, much to his dismay. "Mercer!" he shouted, "Let me go!"

"I said be quiet!" the Guildmaster snapped, and he tossed the smaller Breton into the center of the training room. Garent fell onto his stomach with a grunt and scrambled to stand, turning quickly to face the thief. Mercer had his sword and dagger drawn. Garent felt the blood rush out of his face.

"Guildmaster," Garent croaked, "Please, I'm sorry. You can't possibly kill me for-"

Mercer flew at the boy, and Garent shouted. He tried to duck away, but a familiar boot slammed into his side and sent him sprawling onto the floor. Garent rolled onto his back and once more clambered to his feet. The Guildmaster had his weapons held in an offensive position. This was different than their spar only days ago. Mercer was charging at the boy now.

The master thief ran at Garent again. The boy shouted and as Mercer got close he tried to jump away. A dagger was thrust in front of him, halting his escape, and the flat of Mercer's dwarven sword landed hard on his backside. He hissed in pain as the force threw him forward and Mercer dropped the arm holding the dagger, letting Garent fall forward. Garent fell on his knees. "Get up," the Guildmaster ordered.

Garent could feel bruises forming on his skin already. He winced. Now he was certain escape was not an option. Mercer was quick and would surely catch him before he could get halfway to the ladder. He could run to the Flagon. At least there some of them might take his side and protect him. Garent didn't think he could make it there, either.

He slowly stood back to his feet. Mercer was waiting, the blades lowered for the time being. The boy took a deep breath and bent his knees, ready to dodge the man when he charged and doubting with every fiber in him that he would actually make it. Mercer's green gaze was watching him carefully. Garent nodded, and that was all it took for the Guildmaster to lunge.

...

It was an hour before Mercer let up on the boy. Garent had been thrown, tossed, beaten, and mildly cut in the training room while there were no disturbances. By the end of it, his lip was busted, there were bruises running down his lower back all the way to his thighs, and he had more scratches than he cared to admit. Regardless, he was very much alive.

"Go tell the others they can come inside now," Mercer ordered, "Next time, I let them stay. And don't think you're out of the woods yet, you're paying the Guild back for everything you stole from Erikur. As for the circlet, Melaran told Erikur it was taken, so it has to be repaid as well."

Garent climbed to his feet. "Yes, Guildmaster," he said quietly.

"When you're done in the Flagon, come over to my desk. Understand?"

"Yes, Guildmaster," the boy mumbled.

He made sure to hide his limp as he made his way back to the Ragged Flagon. When he walked in, everyone went quiet. Brynjolf was the first to stand. "Lad, you look-"

"Mercer says you can all go back into the Cistern," Garent cut the man off, immediately turning on his heel before he was given pity. He wasn't sure his pride could stand that. He walked back into the Cistern and across the bridge to Mercer's desk. The man was waiting for him, leaned against the desk.

"Sit down," the older thief ordered, gesturing to a chair behind the desk. Garent did as he was told, cringing somewhat as he did, and looking up as Mercer walked around to face him. He leaned so he was almost sitting on the desk again and held out a book. "Here."

Garent took the leather-bound copy of Shadowmarks. He looked down at the book wordlessly and then back at Mercer. The Guildmaster's face was calmer now, he couldn't help but notice, though his arms were crossed tightly around his chest. "You can read, I presume?"

"Yes," Garent answered quietly.

"Good. Open the first page and read, then. Aloud. Start at the glossary."

Garent felt his chest tighten as he opened the book to view the first Shadowmark.

"This is the symbol for the Guild..."


	7. Things Looking Up

Garent couldn't sleep. He laid awake, now and then tossing and turning, his mind reeling. It had been two nights after getting back from Solitude. His wounds had mostly healed, though his pride still stung freshly. This was mostly due to the fact that Mercer made him read Shadowmarks aloud to him every night before he went to bed.

It had become a cycle. Each night when it had gotten late and most of the thieves were either in the Flagon drinking or asleep and Garent was getting ready for bed, Mercer would call him over. He would hand the boy the book and tell him to sit, and would then have him read the entire Glossary aloud before allowing him to go to bed. Other than that, Mercer would have nothing to do with Garent.

The boy groaned softly and kicked the fur blankets off his body. It was no use. "Can't sleep?" The voice echoed through the Cistern though no one woke oddly enough. Garent sat up and squinted to look at Mercer who was watching him. It was a wonder that Frey never woke anyone up. The young Breton stared at the Guildmaster a moment before shaking his head.

"No, not tonight."

"Then to the training room. Let's go."

Garent's eyes widened slightly as he stood. "I haven't done anything wrong," he defended. The boy was wearing only a pair of fur trousers now, but was quickly reaching for his cuirass.

Mercer scoffed. "Nothing like that. Just a spar. You said you couldn't sleep, after all. Come on." He turned, walking across the bridge in steady strides. "Get dressed and get in here." Garent watched the master thief as he disappeared down the passage to the training room. He sighed, standing up and grabbing the tight fitting Guild trousers he had been given. Once he had gotten dressed, he grabbed his daggers and made his way across the bridge.

Mercer was waiting for him, poised atop the hay bale where the archery target was, sitting with his legs crossed and his blade resting on his thighs. The older man looked up as Garent came in. "Nice to see you could make it," he stated, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "Bring a weapon?"

In reply, Garent bent his knees and pulled out his daggers. He brought them up in an offensive position. Mercer smirked as he stood, brandishing his blade in one hand and dagger in the other. "What is it with you and daggers?" he asked.

Garent began to circle the Guildmaster as a predator might. Mercer seemed to play along, as the normally grouchy Breton moved with him. They circled each other slowly, eyes never leaving the other's. "As a boy, I was trained to wield daggers rather than swords," the young thief replied.

Mercer scoffed. "You're still a boy," he pointed out. As if to test, Mercer took a step forward and swung his sword. Garent rolled away, coming up a few feet back and continuing their cycle. The Guildmaster's lips quirked upward. "Who taught you to fight?"

"I never knew his name," Garent replied, "He was a Khajiit sellsword living in the same village as I had been at the time. I was just a kid at the time, on my own, only a pair of daggers to protect myself. One day, I was wandering the street when this group of beggars came to me. They had intentions to mug me, I figure. But this Khajiit, he intervened. He pulled out these daggers and went to fighting. I had never seen anything like it in my life. The way he moved, the way he dodged and ducked and fought his foes as if he were _dancing_. He fought off the muggers and told me that I should be careful as to who I trusted. As he started off, I called after him, asked him to teach me how to do what he just did. Khajiit are rare in High Rock and, like in Skyrim, aren't very welcome. I had never seen one before." Garent chuckled, his guard seemingly down. Mercer once more tested this theory only to see the boy flip to the side safely. "He taught me how to fight."

Mercer didn't stop his movements in the circle and neither did Garent. They watched one another closely, and finally Mercer spoke. "You were an orphan, then?"

Garent hesitated. "I wasn't always," he replied quietly. His eyes narrowed and then he said, "I suppose it would be pointless to ask about your past?"

The Guildmaster let out a barking sound that might have been a laugh, no matter how humorless and dry it had been. "That sounds about right," he replied.

The younger thief huffed. "That seems a little unfair," he grumbled.

Mercer chuckled, once more a dry and unfeeling sound. "Perhaps. Now, enough talk. We're here to fight, remember?"

Garent's eyes narrowed and he nodded. The boy ducked, rolling close to Mercer much to the Guildmaster's surprise. He stood up just a few inches from Frey and swung one dagger at the Guildmaster's neck. This was deflected by Mercer's dagger and shoved downward. Garent yelped and thrust his other dagger towards Mercer's torso. The older Breton kicked him aside before the dagger could even get close.

Garent slid backwards but didn't fall. He straightened and then dashed forward again, flying up above the Guildmaster's head and landing behind him. Mercer spun easily, bringing his sword down and barely missing Garent's arm. "You know," Garent said, panting, "I'm not sure you get the concept of _sparring_."

Mercer's sword came down on crossed daggers that sought to block the heavy weapon. Garent's arms shook under the force pushing against him as the sword tried to force towards his face. "Mercer," Garent gasped, struggling to hold the man back. "Mercer!"

The boy pushed hard and managed to throw the sword towards the side. Mercer never lost grip, and instead swung the dagger at Garent's torso again. The boy gasped and rolled away, coming up feet away behind the Guildmaster and rushing forward just as Mercer spun to meet him.

For a moment, the two were caught up in the sparring match. Garent kept close as he had been taught, though it was a deadly choice considering who he fought. He moved as though he were caught up in some dangerous dance. Mercer was not quite as graceful, but he was brutal. His blows were harsh, unforgiving, and he refused to let up.

Garent swung a dagger at Mercer's head. It was deflected by a strong arm of the Guildmaster. Mercer thrust his dagger towards Garent's shoulder. The boy ducked out of the way.

Until finally, Garent saw an opening.

Mercer was fast and strong, but every now and then he would seemingly become blinded by rage. He would swing wildly out of frustration. Garent could practically _see_ the fury shine in his eyes. That would be his window of opportunity. All he had to do was wait.

 _There we are._

Mercer's eyes gleamed in anger as his blade just barely missed nipping the boy's shoulder. He saw the man's lip curl in a snarl. And as Mercer brought his sword up and swung with full force, garent ducked, cleanly rolling out of the way and kicking his leg out against Mercer's legs. The older Breton shouted as he fell onto his side.

Garent's heart leaped as the black leather clad Guildmaster dropped his weapons on impact. He quickly sat up to examine Mercer, who laid still in shock for a second before also sitting up. As their eyes met, Garent felt his stomach drop. Had he made the man truly angry?

They were quiet as they stared at one another. Frey's face was blank, and then... He began to laugh.

The young thief watched in shock and perhaps fascination as Mercer's barking laughter echoed through the training room. The laughter died down to chuckling and Mercer shook his head. "Not bad, kid," he muttered.

Garent slowly let out a nervous laugh and watched Mercer stand. He did the same, if not a little shakily. "You were going easy on me," he said plainly, brushing off the dirt that clung to his clothes. "You planned that, didn't you?"

"Just wanted to see if you were paying attention," Mercer replied, picking up his weapons. "In Skyrim, you'll notice most Nords are easily offended, quick to bring out weapons, and all together impulsive. If you ever catch yourself in a fight with a traditional Nord, keep an eye out for openings like that."

Mercer sheathed his sword and looked Garent up and down. He scoffed. "From the looks of you, we've remedied that restless issue. You look ready to pass out."

"And what about you? Don't you ever get tired?" Garent asked. Mercer was right, he was exhausted. He had a strong desire to fall onto one of the haystacks by the wall and sleep there, but the disapproving glance of the Guildmaster made him rethink.

Frey chuckled. "In my position," he said, "I find I have less time for rest. Go to bed. In the morning, I want you in here working. Brynjolf and I will be too busy to babysit."

"I'm not a child," Garent grumbled as they walked back towards the Cistern.

"Could've fooled me," Mercer replied. He turned towards his desk, calling over his shoulder, "Go to bed."

"Yes, _sir_ ," Garent replied snidely.

Mercer paused and turned around, giving Garent a venomous look. The boy's eyes widened and he turned, running at full speed to his bed. He threw himself onto the hay mattress. As he kicked his boots off and wriggled out of his clothes, he was certain he heard the slight echo of Mercer's chuckling.

...

Garent looked around the training room tiredly. Sapphire was standing away from him, swinging a sword at a very unfortunate practice dummy. Her breath was labored and heavy, and now and then she let out a grunt of effort and swung harshly at the sack of hay hanging from the post of wood. Apparently, a scam she had been working on hadn't gone as well as expected. She was furious. "Sapphire?" he asked carefully.

"What?" she hissed in return. She let out a little growl as she pierced the tip of her blade straight into the practice dummy's head.

Garent made a small sound of discomfort. "Have you heard anything from Vex? I haven't seen her lately." Vex usually wasn't one to stray too far from the Flagon unless on a job, but Garent hadn't seen her in days now. He was beginning to get worried.

"Oh, she's still angry about that Goldenglow job," Sapphire replied through gritted teeth, "So, she's taken a few days off. She went to visit some friends, I think. She'll be fine. What about you, Garent? Mercer still on to you about that Solitude job?"

The Breton scoffed. "He won't let it go. And even worse, he treats me like a child. He makes me read that idiotic book once a night. And worst of all, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. Has he always been this way?"

"Long as I can remember," Sapphire said. "He's always been a little rough around the edges, but he's also always been a good Guildmaster. He knows what he's doing. As long as we follow his orders, we end up with money in our pockets." She stopped her assault against the practice dummy, panting. "Vipir's been on my tail all day," she grumbled, "He can't seem to take no for an answer."

Garent laughed. He had noticed that wherever Sapphire was, Vipir was sure to follow. He was actually surprised he wasn't in the training room now. They usually fought together, now that he thought about it. "You two really need to work on your communication skills."

" _I_ need to work on _my_ communication skills?" Sapphire whirled around to face the kneeling Breton. " _He's_ the one who can't take no for an answer! Tell that to him!"

"You two sleep awfully close together, you know. Sometimes I swear both of you are going to fall out of your beds from leaning so close to one another's edge." Garent smiled, but Sapphire just glared at him. She growled and stormed out of the training room, mumbling about idiot men and their ideas.

Garent chuckled and looked around the training hall. It was all to himself now, of course. However, he found himself bored with the orders given to him. Spend the day training? He had trained enough for one day. Why not go for a walk? He walked his way back into the Cistern, glancing towards Mercer's desk. Neither he nor Bryn were anywhere to be seen, which was good. That meant he wouldn't get caught.

Making his way across the bridge, he found himself a set of decent clothes and made his way to the graveyard exit.

The sun was bright, the air void of the terrible cold Skyrim was famous for. Instead, it was cool, much like autumn. In the sunlight, he was warm. He stood amongst the graves for a moment and then let his eyes drop to the patches of Nightshade. Grinning to himself, Garent bent down and carefully picked the ominous looking flowers nearest to him before striding out of the cemetery.

He was immediately met by the sounds of the shop keepers. Grelka was shouting her wares in her usual gruff, annoyed voice. Brand-shei was nowhere to be seen.

 _Must still be in the jails,_ Garent thought. He frowned a little, remembering the dark elf being dragged away. Poor sod.

Garent's eyes flickered to a familiar face. The young Black-Briar lady, Ingun. Garent smiled to himself and hurried to catch up with her. "Hello, my lady!"

Ingun stopped and turned to see who had called out to her. She returned his smile when she saw him. "Well, aren't you a gentleman," she teased, "You rarely hear such nice words in a place like Skyrim, right in Riften, no less! Hello, Garent. How are you?"

 _I'm incredibly bruised and sore from the beating Guildmaster Mercer gifted me, and you?_

"I'm doing great. Here, these are for you." He held out the purple flowers with a smile. Ingun's eyes lit up.

"How lovely. Thank you!" She touched one of the petals of the Nightshade flowers and smiled. "Nightshade is used in poison, you know? Most Nords are afraid of them, saying that they're bad omens. I find them beautiful, really." She tilted her head. "Where did you find them?"

Garent tugged one of the barrels forward and sat down on it. The same barrel he had been sitting on when he met Brynjolf, he realized. "The cemetery," he replied, "There's a lot growing around the graves there."

Ingun leaned against the rock wall that surrounded the bazaar. "Yes, I've read that Nightshade grows near graves. Another reason Nords are afraid of it." She smiled. "What were you doing around the cemetery, anyway?"

Garent's eyes widened. He hadn't thought of a reason as to why he would be in the cemetery. It did seem a bit of an odd place to hang out at, didn't it? "I was just paying respects," he answered sheepishly, "And then I saw the flowers, and thought you might like them." He smiled. That didn't sound so bad.

Indeed, it seemed a perfectly fine answer to Ingun, who smiled and nodded in return. "Thank you, they're beautiful. So, did you come for the single purpose of bringing me flowers?" She tilted her head to the side suggestively and Garent grinned.

"Well, if my Lady Black-Briar would like to join me for a stroll and a drink, I wouldn't object," he said casually, holding out his arm to her. Ingun smiled widely and slipped her arm through his.

"I would love to," she replied. "We can go to the meadery."


	8. Goldenglow Estate

Garent sat alone in the Ragged Flagon, a bottle of Black-Briar Reserves on the table in front of him. He had just gotten back from a job and now he was celebrating. At least, he had intended on celebrating with Ingun Black-Briar. However, her mother seemed hell bent on keeping the girl locked up in their nice, charming manor. Garent had not been pleased. It seemed that Maven Black-Briar had more than a few words to say about the young Breton. Just a day ago, Brynjolf had to get the boy alone to inform him just how annoyed their matriarch was. Maven did not like the idea of her daughter flirting with some dirty Breton thief.

This was why Garent was sitting alone, drinking the expensive alcohol, sitting at the table that overlooked the Cistern's pool of water. From where he sat, he could hear Tonilia and Delvin bartering for a few trinkets. They were just little pieces of jewelry Delvin had picked up on one of his runs, but from the way he was talking about them, one would think they were Daedric artifacts. Garent did his best to block them out as he drank down the Reserves.

"Lad." Brynjolf's voice cut through the peace Garent had been clinging to and the young Breton resisted the urge to groan. Instead, he set down the bottle and turned halfway to look at his mentor in full attention. "Drinking, are we?"

"I never drink before a job, just like you said," Garent replied. "Those were the rules, right? I've followed them. Why, do you have something else for me?" Brynjolf frowned, and Garent wondered if he had somehow upset the man. He turned a little more towards his mentor and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm just annoyed is all. What's going on?" He sat up a little straighter, looking at full attention, and after a moment the Nord took a seat across the table. Brynjolf leaned forward slightly, his arms resting on the table.

"Mercer's got a new job for you," he said quietly, in a low voice.

At Brynjolf's words, Garent suddenly came to life and he leaned in as well. He could see from the way Brynjolf acted that this was something that the others didn't need to hear. Not yet, anyway. "Oh, really? What's he got?"

Brynjolf glanced at the bottle between them which now lay abandoned by the Breton thief. His frown seemed to deepen. "Best we go to the Cistern. He can explain it to you himself. And what he can't, I'll fill in for you." The Nord stood to his full height and waited for Garent to stand. Luckily, the boy had not been drinking for long, and he stood up without much of a stumble. This was good, because both thieves were certain that if Garent came into the Cistern drunk again, Mercer would personally tear off his hide.

They made their way past the secret door and down the hall that would lead to the Cistern's entrance. Garent squinted in the musky fog and saw the Guildmaster in question waiting for both of them on the bridge. Garent felt his stomach twist. Somehow, he did not like the looks of Mercer Frey waiting for him on the bridge. It meant trouble.

"Nice to see you're sober enough to stand," Mercer commented as they met him in the center of the walkway. Garent bit the inside of his jaw at that comment, deciding it was best if he kept his mouth shut. For the past few weeks, he and Mercer had been civil at best. Mercer still forced him to read from the Shadowmarks book every night. At the same time, he also made sure Garent stayed with work. At night, when Garent couldn't sleep, they would spar together. Their conversations were short. Their verbal communication was practically nonexistent. It was only when they met blades in the training room did Mercer and Garent seem to really understand one another. There in the solitude of the sparring hall, they understood one another nearly perfectly. "You up for another job?"

"What did you have in mind?" Garent drawled. He knew from the moment he said it that this was the wrong answer. He was supposed to answer with "Yes, sir" or something of that general nature. He was not supposed to ask questions. He was only supposed to _do_. However, Garent had so far almost always refused to go by that rule. Brynjolf managed to chalk it up to Garent being a "curious lad". Garent was almost certain that sometimes his youth was the only thing keeping him out of trouble. Right now, it wasn't stopping the disgusted snarl slowly forming on his Guildmaster's face. Garent tried not to smirk.

"I'm afraid I cannot disclose that knowledge without knowing I've chosen the right thief for the job," drawled the Guildmaster. Beside him, Garent could see Brynjolf tense up. He resisted a chuckle. "Are you up for the job or not?"

"I am, Guildmaster," he said finally, trying to stifle the laughter in his voice. "Please, tell me more about this job."

Mercer kept the look of disgust on his face a moment longer before he finally gave a little grunt and said in a sarcastic voice, "I think it's time we put your expertise to the test."

Brynjolf took this time to speak, his voice cutting through the thick air. "Wait a moment. I'm not sure, Mercer. He's still new and Goldenglow is going to be tough. Not even our little Vex could get in." Garent looked up to the Nord who was frowning, concern written across his face. The young Breton's eyes widened. Goldenglow? As in the place Vex barely escaped alive?

Mercer fixed the Nord with an almost bored look. "You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work," he pointed out, "So, let him prove it."

Garent looked between the two thieves. Had Bryn actually said that about him? Then, at the very least, Brynjolf didn't think he was a waste of time. As for Mercer, he must have had a _little_ faith in him if he was willing to send him to Goldenglow. Unless the man was only testing him. Was that what this was? Some test to prove himself to Mercer? He knew Mercer didn't exactly trust him yet, or he would have stopped treating him like such a child. That must have been what this was then. Yes, now as Garent stared into the secretive green eyes of the Guildmaster, that was what he saw. It was just like when they sparred in the training room. There was a silent understanding between them.

 _This is your final test_.

Garent gave a single nod as if in agreement.

Mercer's eyes flashed with something. Approval?

"As you know," the older Breton began, "Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one of our largest clients." Garent tried not to let his irritation show as Maven Black-Briar was mentioned. He had had just about enough of that witch of a woman. Mercer still seemed to notice his annoyance and raised an eyebrow, but merely continued. "However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson." The green eyes darkened and Garent could almost hear what that look said. _You know exactly what I mean by that_. "Brynjolf will provide you with the details."

With that, Mercer Frey turned on his heel and strode back to his desk without uttering another word.

Garent turned to his mentor. Brynjolf still seemed uneasy. "Sure you're up for this one, lad?"

"More than up for it," the younger Breton replied, loud enough that Mercer Frey would be able to hear him. "Tell me what I need to do."

Brynjolf pursed his lips as if thinking hard, looked Garent over, and finally gave a nod, giving in. "Goldenglow Estate is a bee farm; they raise the wretched little things for honey. It's owned by some smart mouth High Elf named Aringoth." By the look on Brynjolf's face, Garent could see that the man was not fond of the bees or their owner. He was having a hard time figuring out which of the two Bryn seemed disgusted by the most. "We need you to teach him a lesson by burning down three of the estates' hives and clearing out the safe in the main house."

Garent glanced around Brynjolf for a mere second towards the Guildmaster's desk. His suspicions were confirmed; Mercer was listening in to their conversation. The younger Breton felt a rush of some odd emotion he couldn't remember feeling. The need of approval, perhaps? Whatever it was, it made him eager to ask the next question. "What's the catch?"

Brynjolf's lips twitched for a moment in a sort of smile that was hard for Garent to place. Fondness, maybe, or just amusement. "The catch is you can't burn the whole place to the ground," he replied. "That _important_ _client_ that Mercer mentioned would be furious if you did." Garent felt his teeth grit together but he still answered calmly as possible.

"Makes sense."

"Aye, the last thing we want to be doing is crossing our clients." A sound from behind Garent brought his attention back to the Guildmaster. A laugh? Or a warning scoff?

Garent pursed his lips. "What should I do about Aringoth?"

"Maven prefers that Aringoth remains alive, but if he tries to stop you from getting the job done, kill him." These words alone satisfied Garent. If Maven wanted Aringoth alive, then the answer was simple. _Kill him_. "The Guild has a lot riding on this, Garent. Don't make me look foolish by mucking it up." The Nord's eyes narrowed and after a moment he said in a quieter voice, "Watch yourself over there, lad. That place is full of mercenaries who won't think twice about killing you. I know our rules are usually don't kill, but if they give you trouble, kill them. I've seen you fight. Use everything you've got." Garent gave a nod of understanding. "Talk to Vex if you need any more details."

Garent went to his bunk long enough to grab his daggers before going back to the Flagon.

Vex had returned a week after her vacation in full gear. In fact, no one had seen Vex work so hard in her life. She had barely stayed in the Flagon at all, and on the few occasions she was there, it was because she was setting other people up on missions and jobs. Everyone had to admit that whatever slump the white haired thief had been going through was entirely _gone_. All was left was her determination to make up for it.

Garent found her standing against a wall, explaining a job to Rune. The Breton waited patiently for them to finish. Once Rune dashed off with his instructions, he stepped over to the busy looking woman. "Vex," he greeted casually.

"Lookin' for a job, kid?" she asked. "I got a few you can run for me."

Garent cleared his throat. "Actually, I'm already on a job. That's why I came to you. I need to ask you something."

The Imperial raised an eyebrow and looked the young thief up and down, clearly intrigued. "I'm listening. What do you need?"

The young Breton took in a deep breath. He didn't want to upset Vex with the knowledge that he would be taking over the Goldenglow job. "I heard you ran into trouble at Goldenglow," he said finally, deciding that to sound conversational would be his best option. Vex's eyes flashed with immediate realization, but at first she said nothing. Her eyes narrowed and she looked Garent up and down as if sizing him up.

Finally, she gave a soft "hmph" and shrugged. "Yeah, I did. That wood elf s'wit... He's a lot smarter than I expected." She scowled. "Can you believe that fetcher had more than tripled the guard? There must be eight of them in there! It was like he was _daring_ us to come and get him." Vex's eyes narrowed in annoyance and she shook her head, glaring off at the wall behind Garent.

The young thief sighed. So much for not upsetting her. Deciding to move this talk along, he asked, "Any tips to get me in there?"

The Imperial gave him a begrudging look then sighed, her expression becoming more thoughtful. "Well," she mumbled, "There's an old sewer tunnel that dumps into the lake on the northwest side of the island. Should still be unguarded. That's how I got in there." She folded her arms. "Look, watch your back out there. If _I_ almost got myself killed, I can only imagine the hell you're about to go through. All I got to say is good luck, kid."

Garent chuckled. He gave a half smile. "Don't you worry about me. Aringoth won't know what hit him." So saying, the Breton turned on his heel and headed towards the Ratway, deciding he would take the long way around. "Who knows? I may take your job!"

He could hear Vex laugh humorlessly. "Don't count on it."

Garent grinned as he opened the door to the Ratway and climbed the stairs. It was empty of any life, as usual. Garent sometimes found himself coming into the Ratway to get away from all else, especially when the Guildmaster seemed particularly irritable. If Mercer was annoyed, it usually meant he was annoyed with Garent. Even if the boy himself didn't do anything particularly wrong, Mercer could still find fault in his actions if only for the purpose of growling at him to release some anger. Garent found himself in the Ratway often because of this.

He made his way across the short bridge and through the tunnels before climbing the stairs and finally exiting the smells of the sewers. He found that he was getting more and more use to the smell of the Cistern, and now it didn't bother him. He had to be careful, though. That smell was enough to knock any regular person out. Because of this, he had asked Ingun to brew a potion that was really more of a cologne than anything else. It killed the smell well enough, replacing it with the smell of pine.

He didn't bother with putting any of the concoction on for plenty of reasons. He knew he was going to likely have to swim some distance which would only wash the cologne off him, he would be going right back into the sewer anyway, and the mercenaries would likely notice the strong scent of pine forest walking around the house. Meanwhile, he knew that it wasn't uncommon for mercenaries to get their hands dirty, along with the rest of themselves. They wouldn't notice the faint smell of sewer. Garent walked through the city, keeping himself hidden despite it being almost time for shops to close. It was sunset, but there were still plenty of people out and despite what some might have thought, Garent liked to keep up appearances.

Once he had made it out of the city, he walked along the bank of the lake, peering out at Goldenglow as he walked. It was an impressive piece of property for sure. He could see a bridge leading the way there, but it didn't seem like going through the front doors was a good idea. He was certain that he would be shot on sight. Garent was not meant for ranged fighting. He needed to be up close and personal at all times. So, when he thought he had walked far enough around the lake, he turned towards the estate and began wading farther into the water.

Swimming was not Garent's first choice, but it seemed efficient enough. It kept him from being spotted far better and it would be simpler to get on to the property. With this in mind, the young Breton took in a breath as he kicked off the lake floor.

He was immediately faced with various challenges. His armor was not necessarily heavy or difficult to move in on land, but in water, it weighed Garent down. His inventory didn't help matters, his daggers uncomfortably bumping against his thighs. He realized with a huff that there would be no way to swim across. With all the splashing he was making, it was a wonder he hadn't already alerted the mercenaries. Grunting out a few curses, the young Breton paddled back to shore.

He stood at the water's edge as the last rays of light crossed over the sky, staring at the estate in wonder. How was he going to get in without being seen? He still very much desired to use the sewer, deciding it would be borderline necessary for this job. His mind went to Mercer's steely gaze that so clearly said all it needed. _Don't fail me_. Garent did not want to fail the Guildmaster. Failure meant he would fail this test. Failure meant failure in proving himself among the thieves. His eyes went to the bridge as the light dimmed across the lake and all was left was torch light. He couldn't go across the bridge. Perhaps, however, he could go under it.

As long as he stayed beneath the bridge and in the shadows, he could hang on to the rocks and creep his way across the water. Once he got to the estate, he could sneak around and find the sewer entrance. From there, it would be no problem getting inside. With this new plan in mind, the young thief turned and started around the lake to get to the bridge.

The walk was longer than he would have liked, but by the time he made it to the bridge it was very dark. No one would see him climbing the bottom of the bridge as long as he didn't make too much noise. The sounds of waves hitting the stone would be enough to block out the thief as long as he was careful. Creeping down into the shallow bank, Garent ducked beneath the bridge and looked up at it's underbelly. The rock was rough and full of foot holds. It would not be hard to climb across. As long as he didn't lose his grip and fall in, he would be fine.

Making sure his belongings - his daggers, lock picks, and few health potions - were all securely strapped to his person, he tentatively reached out and began to crawl his way over the bridge's bottom. In the dark, none could see him. Garent was quite certain he resembled a spider crawling over a web, hands and feet clinging tightly to the rocks. Once across the first hump, Garent edged his way around, trying to keep himself out of the water as much as possible. Another careful trip under the bridge, and he was on the other side of the bank. He was officially on Goldenglow Estate.

Grinning victoriously, Garent crouched down to keep himself hidden and carefully made his way around the bank, hiding behind the rocks as best he could. Though he was still half soaked, he was quiet and managed to make it to the small entrance to the estate's sewers without issue. Now and then a torch light flickered across the ground near Garent and he knew that a mercenary was making his rounds. That didn't stop him from scurrying down the mouth of the entrance, dropping down onto the sewer floor with a squelch.

Though Garent was used to the smell of sewage by now, his nose still crinkled as he dropped into the tunnel. The place smelled of skeevers and a thousand other unsanitary things. The Breton sighed and looked around at the mess around him. This would surely lead to the house. Keeping his guard up, Garent made his way down the long tunnel.

The sewer was rigged with basic traps. Garent ran into little trouble, save for a few skeevers and a trip wire he easily evaded. If this was how the entire house would be, Garent would have no troubles. He confidently moved through the tunnel and came to the end. This would be it, he supposed. This would be the real test. Mercer had sent him here to know for sure that Garent had what it took to be a thief, and Garent was damn well going to prove himself. If Mercer wanted the safe wiped out, Garent would swipe every single coin and valuable within the house. If Mercer wanted the hives burned, he would put on a show of fire. More importantly, he would do it all without a hitch and he would return to Mercer Frey, and forever have proven himself to be the Guildmaster's equal. He would show the older thief that he was worthy of his time and training.

With these thoughts in mind, Garent carefully climbed up the ladder. He peered out through a crack little thicker than a sheet, then very slowly crawled out of the manhole and crouched down against the house. In the distance, he could make out some torches and shadow figures moving. He would burn the bee hives last, he decided. For now, he crept over to the side door. It was locked tight, but after some very delicate work with a lock pick, the lock gave way and gave Garent entrance. He slipped into the house and looked around.

The house was large in size but not particularly interesting, now that Garent was getting a good look at it from the inside. Random end tables littered hallways. There was various twists and turns Garent could choose to take, and though there were a few doors he took the liberty of opening and stealing goods from, he mostly searched for the stairs that would lead him to the upper level. He wanted to get in and get out without a hiccup. He needed to prove a point. The heavy footfall of boots caused the boy to stop in his tracks. He slipped back into the shadows and pressed himself up against the walls. From the end of the hallway, Garent saw a man in iron armor pass through the doorway and keep going. The young thief stayed stock still and watched the man pass. He heard the fading footsteps and sighed silently. These people were of no concern of his. He had every intention to kill Aringoth, yes, but only because Maven preferred him alive. This was the difference between a good thief and a rowdy bandit; A bandit didn't care who or what he destroyed in his path, but a thief was calculated.

He carefully pushed himself off the wall and continued his way. Turning a corner, he found the set of stairs and smiled lightly. Excellent. Ducking down low, Garent crept his way quietly up the stairs and found himself on the second floor.

Garent could hear a mercenary muttering to himself at the end of the hall. He paused, listened, and then crept down the hall. Garent could just make out the form at the end of the corner. Cursing quietly, Garent stopped. Well, now how was he supposed to sneak past that one? The sight of a door on the wall he was against caught his gaze. He looked at it thoughtfully then walked forward. Noting that it was locked, he picked it quickly and slipped inside before the mercenary could notice his presence.

The young thief quietly shut the door behind him and looked around the quarters he'd found. It was a simple bedroom. Garent figured the mercenaries slept here. There was another door, to which Garent could only assume would lead past the mercenary he had seen. He took a moment to stand up straight, stretch his limbs, and check the cupboards for gold. When he found all he wanted, he turned to the door and picked the lock.

By going through the mercenaries' quarters, he had managed to slip past the guard entirely. He managed to sneak by a second one - a man sitting with his back to the room at a table - with just as much ease. With that done, he picked the lock into the master bedroom and stepped inside.

Garent shut the door behind him quietly and looked around. He didn't see the elf anywhere at first, until finally he realized he heard a rustling sound in the corner. The Breton grinned and walked his way into the room, turning on his heel to see Aringoth, crouched.

He remembered what Brynjolf said. Don't kill him unless attacked. Maven wanted him alive. Well, if Maven wanted Aringoth alive, then Garent wanted him dead. So, not bothering to try and hide himself, Garent said, "Hello, Aringoth. Nice home you have."

Aringoth looked up at the voice and gave a rather disgusted look. Garent smirked. If he hadn't wanted to kill Aringoth five seconds ago, he certainly did now. Cutting to the chase, Garent said, "I'm here on behalf of the Thieves Guild and Maven Black-Briar. You've been skipping out and I'm here to collect the pay. Give me the key to your safe and nothing will happen to you." It was a lie, of course, but Garent knew that Aringoth wouldn't willingly give his key.

True to the thief's beliefs, Aringoth stood. "I won't let you take everything I've worked so hard for!"

It was quick work. Aringoth went to draw a blade but by the time he had, Garent was upon him. With one quick motion, he had cut open the man's throat. Garent caught the tall elf so that the fall would not make noise. He lowered Aringoth slowly as blood began to pool around him. It stained the Altmer's clothes and Garent's fingers. The young Breton reached into the man's coat pocket and found what he needed: the key. Sighing, Garent stood up and walked over the man. He cleaned his hands and boots off using some clothes he found in the wardrobe, picked up a rather shiny statuette he found on a shelf, and then crept out the way he came.

None of the mercenaries heard him. No one noticed him. He managed to sneak his way back to the first floor, found the gate to the basement, and made his way down.

The next few minutes were of quiet sneaking, hiding, and slipping past guards. Garent found the safe without issue and took all the contents, stuffing them in his pockets without looking much at anything. When the safe was cleared, he slunk out. All was left to do was burn the hives.

It was pitch black outside when Garent finally managed leave the building. He could just make out the torches leading down the walkway that led to the beehives. Garent took a deep breath and crouched, sneaking his way through the shadows towards the small field. _Three hives. No more, no less. Don't burn them all. Don't leave too many behind._

"Did you hear something?" The voice was thick with a Nord's accent. Garent stopped moving and held his breath. He could hear moving but could see nothing in the blinding night. There was a long pause and then, "Must have been my imagination."

The footsteps moved on and faded away. Garent released the breath he was holding and then continued on his way, now working to be extra silent.

As he reached the beehives, Garent lifted one of the torches and crept his way over. He realized that the moment he began setting the things on fire, the fire would light up the area and alert anyone nearby. He'd have to be quick. His eyes scanned the area and landed on a ledge that wasn't too steep or difficult to climb down. That would be his escape. He'd have to swim towards the faded lights of Riften. As long as he was quick, the dark water would hide him.

With that in mind, Garent set fire to the first beehive.

The flames went up, the smoke thick, and Garent could hear the faint hum of bees inside. That was one. He lit up the second and watched the flames rise high. Voices began calling.

"Do you smell something burning?"

"Look! The hives!"

"Someone's setting the hives on fire!"

Garent set fire to the third just as an arrow whizzed by his head and embedded itself into the wooden fence. Garent set the torch back and ducked down just as another arrow flew at him. "There! Don't let him escape! Master Aringoth has been found dead!"

Cursing, Garent dashed out of the way, heading straight for the ledge. He could hear someone directly behind him, feel the air of a blade swinging at his back. Garent leaped down ledge and landed waist deep in water. An arrow shot into the water near him and he ducked beneath the waves, pushing off the ground and swimming from the estate. Arrows flew into the water, but within time they became less accurate as Garent blended into the night. Soon, he surfaced, heaving and coughing. He turned to see the estate in the far distance. The hives could still be seen burning, and the silhouettes of men rushing in an attempt to find the man responsible for their employer's death. Garent smiled to himself. Turning, he swam his way back to the docks of Riften.


End file.
